


Recoil

by The Last Speecher (HeidiMelone)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Bonding, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, FiddStan (eventually), Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Stan wants to be a dad and gets a trial run, Stangst, magic kinda trumps science here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiMelone/pseuds/The%20Last%20Speecher
Summary: The fight was going as it always did for Stan and Ford.  Hurtful words followed by clenched fists, no resolution, no quarter given.  That is, until Ford turned eight.(Inspired by Ppleater's fic "1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back)
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 75
Kudos: 218





	1. Stopping Power

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871936) by [Ppleater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ppleater/pseuds/Ppleater). 
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Stopping power** (noun): the ability of a weapon to incapacitate a target

Stan sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on the back of the small child sleeping next to him. In the dark, he could only see dark curls standing out against the light pillowcase. Soft snoring filled the room. Satisfied, Stan began to stand up. He paused for a moment, then sat back down, watching the sleeping boy, thinking about the events that had led to this moment.

* * *

“You ruined my life!” Stan snarled, trying to pull Ford’s damn book from him. Ford’s attempt to hold onto the book failed. Stan stumbled backwards, the book clutched to his chest.

“I ruined nothing!” Ford shouted, shoving Stan. “You ruined your own life!” The small of Stan’s back hit something hard and metal, and Stan collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain and a wince. He looked up at Ford, a few feet away, bathed in the light of the machine Stan couldn’t remember the name of. Ford opened his mouth, probably to shout some more.

The glow emitted by the machine grew brighter and brighter, filling the basement room corner to corner. Ford looked at the machine, apparently shocked out of fighting mode by the change. Stan couldn’t interpret the expression with which Ford stared at the machine. Fear? Anticipation? Confusion? Before he could narrow down the emotion, a sudden bolt of electricity shot out from the center of the light, striking Ford square in the chest. Ford fell to his knees with a cry.

“Ford!” Stan threw aside the book and rushed over to his brother, crouching next to him. Ford’s body crackled with electricity, miniature bolts of lightning running up and down his skin. “Stanford, what’s-” Before Stan could get out the rest of his question, a high-pitched ring sounded from the machine. It rose in volume threateningly, making Stan watch the machine, bracing himself for some new horror. As abruptly as it started, the sound cut out. The light vanished.

Stan blinked away the spots dancing before his eyes. Once his vision cleared, his jaw dropped at the sight in front of him. Where moments ago, a man in his late twenties had knelt, now a young child crouched, shivering. Stan recognized the boy immediately.

“Stanford?” Stan said cautiously, reaching out a hand. Ford’s twelve fingers clenched, scraping against the dirt floor.

“Leave,” Ford said in a quaking voice, his eyes screwed shut. Stan swallowed.

“I- I don’t think I should.”

“Just-”

“Look at yourself,” Stan interrupted. Ford reluctantly opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon his now small hands. His breath hitched in his throat.

“What- what- how?” Ford whispered. The shivers from before intensified. With a fevered energy, Ford inspected rest of his body, rubbing his hands over his face and scrawny limbs. “No. No. This is- this can’t- what’s-” Ford looked up at Stan. His cherubic face was framed with thick brown curls that their mom would spend ages trying to tame before temple. Tears spilled from his wide, brown eyes onto his ruddy cheeks. Any doubt Stan had as to what had happened was instantly dashed.

Ford couldn’t be any older than ten, but Stan couldn’t quite tell his exact age in the dimly lit basement. A soft keening filled the air. Stan looked at the machine, worried it had turned on again, only to realize that the sound was coming from Ford. He looked back at his brother.

_He’s in full breakdown mode_. Every inch of Ford’s small body was wracked with sobs. Stan’s mind kicked into overdrive, remembering lessons from the few Boy Scout meetings he’d been to before Filbrick deemed it a waste of money. _Crisis situation. Whattaya do first? Make sure that anyone who’s panicking stops. Then fix the problem._

“Ford, I’m gonna need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?” Stan said, forcing himself to remain calm. Ford shook his head. “C’mon. We’ll do it together.” Stan placed his hands on Ford’s shoulders. “One big breath in.” He took a deep breath. “One out.” He breathed out. It took a few cycles of this before Ford was actually doing it.

_Not sure whether it’s because he’s actually listening or because he’s getting annoyed by me. But it doesn’t matter_. Stan and Ford breathed out together.

“Good. Now, this part is gonna be tough, but don’t think about anything. Turn that big brain of yours off for a little bit. Just think about the breathing,” Stan said. Ford frowned at him. “Just trust me. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

After about five minutes, Ford had stopped shaking. Dried tear tracks shone on his chubby cheeks. He hurriedly attempted to scrub them away with his sleeve.

“Stanley,” Ford croaked.

“Yeah?”

“What- what happened?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Sixer,” Stan said softly. “All I know is that you’re a kid again. Which shouldn’t be possible.”

“Yes, well, a fair number of things happen in Gravity Falls that shouldn’t be possible,” Ford said. He took off his glasses to better rub away the tear stains on his face. Stan’s heart sank. They had been mostly covered by his glasses, but Stan could now see dark circles under Ford’s eyes.

_Ford would skip sleep a lot in high school, but it was never this bad_. _What the hell happened?_ Ford got to his feet shakily. He abruptly began to lean to the side.

“Whoa!” Stan grabbed Ford before he could completely collapse. “Okay, you need to sleep.”

“No, Stanley, Bill will-”

“I don’t care who the fuck Bill is. A slight breeze could knock you over. You’re gonna take a nap.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Stan said briskly. He scooped Ford into his arms.

“Stanley!” Ford fought back but was too weak to do much of anything. “This is demeaning!”

“Yup.” Stan headed for the door to the basement. “I don’t care.”

“But Bill-” Ford started. Stan began to walk upstairs.

“I’m gonna find your bedroom, put your butt in bed, and then you’re gonna take a nap. We can talk after that.”

“If I get coffee-”

“Hell no.”

“Bill-!”

“I’ll keep watch,” Stan said. “I won’t leave your side. Just- you need to sleep.” Ford continued to protest as Stan wandered around the house, trying to find Ford’s bedroom. His protests grew fainter and attempts to wriggle free weaker as he became more tired. By the time Stan had located Ford’s bed, he was already fast asleep. Stan carefully tucked Ford into the bed and removed his glasses, setting them on the bedside table. Ford rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something blearily. Stan took a seat on the floor next to Ford’s bed, determined to keep his word. He watched Ford sleep, his mind going a mile a minute now that the immediate problem had been taken care of.

_What the actual fuck just happened?_

Ford woke slowly, gradually surfacing from deep sleep.

_Sleep? Oh, no!_ Ford’s eyes shot open. He sat bolt upright in bed. _Bill! There’s no telling what he did while I was sleeping. Why the hell did I fall asleep?_

“You’re up,” a voice said. Ford looked over. Stan sat next to his bed, watching him with a carefully guarded expression. “Good. I really need to pee.”

“I- you-” Ford started. He shook his head. “What?”

“Well, I said I’d keep watch while you slept. But you slept a lot longer than I thought you were gonna. If I don’t find a toilet soon, I’ll probably piss myself.” Stan’s tone was light and airy. Like his neutral expression, false. “Where’s the john?”

“Um…down the hall to the right,” Ford mumbled.

“Great. Be back in a second.” Stan got to his feet, ruffled Ford’s hair, and then rushed out of the bedroom. Ford watched him leave, bewildered.

_Why did he muss my hair like that? And what is he still doing here?_ Ford swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stopped. Ice filled his veins. Gone were the muscled legs from field research, replaced by the knobby knees and skinny feet of his childhood. The events that had transpired last night came crashing down over him. Ford put his head in his hands, unable to form any coherent thoughts. His brain was filled with static.

When Stan finally came back, Ford was still sitting mutely on the bed.

“All right, now that’s taken care of…” Stan sat next to Ford. “What the fuck?” Ford managed a weak laugh. To his consternation, it came out as a giggle.

“I don’t know, Stanley. I’ve theorized that age regression is possible under specific circumstances, but I have no idea of how those circumstances were met downstairs.”

“You really get up to some weird shit, don’t you?”

“This isn’t even the worse thing that’s happened to me,” Ford said dryly.

“Heh.” Ford kept his head in his hands, avoiding eye contact with Stan. He didn’t want Stan to look at him with sympathy, or worse, like a child. “So, uh…” Stan cleared his throat. “I’m gonna call a timeout on our fight. I’m not really in the mood for punching an eight-year-old.” That got Ford’s attention. He looked up at Stan.

“I’m eight?”

“Yeah.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, I figured it out while you were sleeping.”

“How?”

“You got those frames when we were eight, but they got broken and had to be replaced by the time we were nine,” Stan answered, handing Ford a pair of glasses. Ford looked down at them in surprise.

_My eyesight is normally so horrific that when I returned to this age, it was like I didn’t need corrective lenses. I do, of course. But my prescription wasn’t as strong when I was eight_. And Ford recognized the frames. Stan was right about his current biological age. Ford put the glasses on. The world became clearer.

“It appears my glasses were somehow affected by the…incident,” Ford said. Stan nodded.

“Your clothes, too.”

“My-” Ford looked down at himself. His slacks, button-up, tie, and trench coat were gone, replaced by brown shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of an atom on it.

_How did I not realize my clothing had changed? This is getting stranger by the second._

“You kicked off your shoes while you were sleeping,” Stan continued. “One hit me in the head.” Some part of Ford was pleased to hear that. “Looks like you lost your socks, too.” Ford continued to stare at himself. “What’s up?”

“Just attempting to use this new information to narrow down the cause of my regression.”

“You don’t remember?” Stan asked. Ford looked at him. “Lightning came outta that thing in your basement and hit you. Dunno why it did that or why it turned you into a kid. But that’s what I saw.”

“That complicates matters,” Ford mumbled. He rubbed his eyes wearily. Despite his nap, exhaustion still weighed on him. “I’m unsure of how that would result in this particular effect.” Ford sighed. “Well, you can leave, Stanley. I’ll handle things here on my own.”

“No,” Stan said shortly. Ford rolled his eyes.

“I’m an adult, I can take care of my-”

“You’re _not_ an adult, Sixer,” Stan snapped. Ford recoiled from him, surprised by the sudden venom. Tense energy rolled off Stan in waves. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You- Do you even realize what all this means? Until whatever happened to you gets fixed or wears off, you’re eight fucking years old. You can’t drive. You can’t reach things that are five feet high. You can’t-” Stan set his jaw grimly. “I’ll leave the second you’re back to normal. In the meantime, though, I’m gonna stay here, whether you want me to or not. We mighta been on the rocks lately, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let my brother get picked up by Child Services or accidentally kill himself by falling when he tried to grab something out of reach.”

“I…” Ford wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion or the abrupt reveal of how vulnerable he now was, but he found himself cowed by Stan’s words. He ducked his head. “…I suppose that’s…reasonable.”

“Damn straight it’s reasonable,” Stan muttered under his breath. Ford’s stomach rumbled. “You hungry?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be- the hell kinda answer is that? You’re a kid now. Kids have to eat.” Ford was silent. “C’mon, I’ll make you somethin’.” Stan squinted at the clock on the wall. “It’s ten, looks like. I’ll make you brunch.”

“That would be quite the feat, given that there isn’t any food in the house,” Ford mumbled. Stan let out a long sigh. Ford glanced at him. Stan’s shoulders were slumped as though he carried a weight on them. “…What?”

“Ford, you’re...” Stan chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Okay. You were barely functioning as an adult. As a kid, you look like you might keel over any second.”

“And?”

“And that’s bad, Poindexter! I’ll-” Stan shook his head. “We obviously have a lot left to talk about, like who the fuck Bill is, but before we do, we’re going to the store.” Ford’s blood ran cold.

“You know about Bill?”

“You only mentioned him a million times right after you got turned into a kid,” Stan said. “But you didn’t explain who he was or why you were so scared of him.” A note of concern entered Stan’s voice. “You passed out pretty fast.” Ford looked away.

“It’s a long story,” he said faintly.

“Then it can definitely wait,” Stan said. Ford’s stomach rumbled again. “Put your shoes on. We’ll take my car.”

Stan wasn’t sure how old you had to be in order to ride in the passenger seat, but he decided to let Ford sit where he wanted. He’d never really cared about the rules of the road anyways.

_But whenever I was being chased by cops before, the only person that’d deal with it would be me._ Stan glanced at Ford, who was staring out the window, mumbling to himself. _If I got pulled over now, who knows what they’d do with Ford._ A tight sensation bloomed in his chest as he pictured Ford getting led away by Child Services, handed off to a foster family that would never believe this boy with a million freckles and big eyes was actually an adult.

“Turn here,” Ford said abruptly. He was acting as Stan’s map, since Stan didn’t know where anything was in Gravity Falls. Stan did as he was told. “It should be on the-”

“I see it,” Stan said. It was difficult not to notice the strip mall with its vast parking lot. Stan pulled into a parking space and turned off the car. Ford reached for the door handle. “Ford.” Ford paused. “Just so you know, we’re gonna steal most of the stuff we get today.” Ford whipped his head around to stare at Stan. “I don’t have any money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before we left?” Ford demanded. “I could have-”

“Do _you_ have any money?” Stan asked. Ford fell silent. “Look, you don’t have to worry about it too much. I’ll handle it. I’ve got a lot of practice.” Ford’s eyes widened in surprise. Stan resisted the urge to look away. “Just thought I’d let you know in advance,” he mumbled. After a moment, Ford nodded.

“I appreciate that.”

“No problem.” Stan took a breath. “Let’s head inside.” He got out of the car, then waited for Ford to follow suit. At some point during the drive, it had started snowing. Ford walked over to him, hugging his arms to his chest in an attempt to stay warm. Without a word, Stan shrugged off his dingy, dirty jacket and draped it over Ford’s shoulders. The jacket came down nearly to Ford’s knees, but at least he stopped shivering.

As they trudged through the slushy parking lot, Stan couldn’t help but think back to the initial moment Ford had been turned into a kid. He’d expected that overwhelmed, childish reaction to be the case again once Ford awoke, but Ford seemed like himself. Stan glanced at Ford out of the corner of his eye. His round, youthful face was beginning to turn pink from the cold.

_Well, mostly like himself_. Stan looked ahead again. _Why doesn’t he remember getting turned into a kid? He didn’t remember the lightning and he sure as hell doesn’t remember having a breakdown in front of me last night. If he did, he’d be acting a lot more awkward_. Ford let out a small squeak as he caught his shoe on something and fell forward. Stan’s arms shot out instinctively to catch him before he hit the ground. Ford promptly shook him off.

“I’m fine, Stanley.” Ford pulled Stan’s jacket closer to his body. “As fine as I can be, given the circumstances.” Stan just nodded silently. The rest of the walk to the mall was uneventful. Once they walked inside, Ford promptly took off Stan’s jacket and handed it to him. Ford then set off with purpose.

“Whoa, hey!” Stan caught up with Ford, which only took a few strides, and put a hand on his shoulder. Ford froze. “You can’t just run off like that.”

“I was going to the food court. I thought the plan was to get food.”

“It was. It is. I just…” Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Let me know where you’re going if you’re gonna wander off somewhere, okay?” Ford looked down at his feet, abashed.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Stan parroted. He donned his jacket. “You know where the food court is?” Ford nodded. “Lead the way.”

Going through the lines at the food court was easy enough. Ford had immediately gravitated towards the kiosk that sold specialty ice cream. Looking at the flavors, Stan found himself wanting some as well, but he only had enough money for something cheap, so he reluctantly dragged Ford over to the sandwich place. The whining coming from Ford as a result turned a few heads and elicited a few chuckles from people who likely had experience telling children no to sweets. The two of them finally sat down at a table to eat their sandwiches.

There weren’t any children Ford’s current age in the mall, something that Stan didn’t realize until he was approached by a woman with a sleeping baby in a stroller.

“Excuse me, sir?” the woman said. Stan looked up from his sandwich. Ford ignored the stranger and continued to pick at his own meal.

“Uh, yeah?” Stan asked.

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but I think it’s rather odd that your son isn’t in school.” Ford froze. “It is Tuesday, after all. And my own son, Charlie, his winter break ended last week.” The woman’s eyes bore into Stan. Stan’s habitual lying kicked in. He raised an eyebrow at the woman.

“You’re right,” he said coolly. “It _is_ none of your business.” The woman’s mouth dropped open. Before she could gather herself enough to continue prying, Stan spoke again. “But if you must know, my son and I are visiting relatives. _His_ winter break is still going on.” The woman took a step back.

“…Oh. I didn’t realize-”

“Yeah.” Stan glanced at his watch, pretending to check the time. “Ford, we have to go. You can eat your food as we walk.” He got up and held out his hand. Ford stared at it for a second like he wasn’t sure what to do. Stan shook his hand. Ford glowered but grabbed the outstretched hand obediently. He and Stan walked away, avoiding eye contact with the strange woman. Once officially out of the food court, Ford let go of Stan’s hand like it was red hot. He turned on Stan.

“What the hell was that, Stanley?” Ford snarled. Stan looked around. They were alone.

“I had to tell her _something_,” Stan hissed.

“What about when I’m back to normal? People will ask you about your son.”

“I won’t be in town anymore,” Stan pointed out. Ford blinked, like he’d forgotten Stan intended on leaving once this problem had been resolved. The moment of shock passed. Ford shook his head.

“The fact remains, you didn’t need to claim I was your son. You couldn’t have said I was your nephew? Maybe your cousin? Or tell the truth, that I’m your brother?”

“There’s about twenty years difference between us right now. No one would believe we’re brothers.”

“Still!”

“The best way to lie is to go along with people’s assumptions,” Stan said. “Let them think they’re right.” Ford crossed his arms, visibly furious. “If you’re that peeved about it, we can always tell other people that you’re my nephew.”

“Wouldn’t contradicting your first lie with a second one make that second lie weaker?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Ford’s mouth puckered like he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. “I suppose I’m your son for now.” He pointed at Stan angrily. “But I want it on the record that I’m pissed about this.”

“Yeah, I figured that much out,” Stan said. “By the way, you’re damn lucky no one else is around to hear you swearing up a storm.”

“Why?”

“Kids aren’t supposed to cuss, Poindexter. If I’m gonna pretend to be a regular dad to a regular kid, I’ll have to tell you off for swearing in public.” Ford’s expression somehow grew even more sour. “Y’know, if you make that face for too long, it’ll get stuck like that.” Bemusement splashed onto Ford’s face.

“What?”

“You don’t remember Mom telling us that? Well, I guess she mostly said it to me,” Stan said absently. Ford huffed impatiently.

“We don’t have time for this, Stanley. We have to return home so that I can tell you about Bill.” A shadow crossed Ford’s face. The bright lights of the mall somehow seemed a bit darker.

“…Right. The good news though, is that we’re gonna be stealing everything else. And if you wanna pull off a heist properly, you can’t dawdle. So it won’t take too long.” Stan began to head toward the children’s clothes store they’d passed on the way to the food court.

“Stealing,” Ford muttered under his breath, following. “If I was actually your child, you’d be encouraging me to be a thief.”

“It’s an art form that’s dying out,” Stan said firmly. “Nothin’ wrong with teaching it to the next generation.”

Ford rolled his eyes.

Ford bounded out of the car and made a beeline for the front door, planning on making his way inside before he would be roped into helping to carry things.

“Ford.”

_Dammit_. Ford turned around.

“Yes?”

“All this shit is yours,” Stan said gesturing to the clothes in the back seat. “You need to help bring it in.” Ford scowled. “C’mon.” Ford reluctantly went back to the car. He held out his arms and allowed Stan to fill them with items. “You know, glaring at me all the time isn’t how you’re gonna get your way. You’ve got those big brown eyes. Use ‘em.”

“What?” Ford asked, blindsided. Stan snorted. He put another shirt on the pile of clothes Ford was carrying.

“You haven’t looked at your reflection yet, have you?”

“…No.”

“Hang on.” Stan got into the back seat and began to dig around the cushions. Ford sighed impatiently.

“Is this really-” he started. Stan emerged, holding something shiny.

“Here,” Stan said, holding the object up. It was a metal flask. “Take a look at yourself.” Ford rolled his eyes but decided to have a cursory glance. He intended on looking briefly. At the sight of his reflection, though, he paused. Wild curls surrounded his objectively cute face, chubby with baby fat. Freckles were splashed across his cheeks, but Stan was right that his eyes were the standout feature. Even hidden behind glasses, his eyes were wide and innocent-looking, framed by thick eyelashes. Ford’s mouth dropped open. The boy in the reflection did the same.

_I’m…adorable. I’m adorable? I’m adorable._

“I’m…”

“Cute as a button,” Stan said with a soft chuckle. Ford was too shocked by his youthful appearance to scowl at his brother. “See what I mean? If you make puppy dog eyes, no one could say no to you.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Stan asked, tossing the flask back in the car.

“Would you be able to say no to this face?” Ford widened his eyes plaintively. Stan frowned thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. Ford pouted. “But if you practice, someday I might not be able to.” Stan closed the car door. “Let’s go inside and put all this crap away. Then we can talk about that thing in the basement and Bill.” A chill ran down Ford’s spine at the sound of Bill’s name.

“Actually, maybe we should talk first,” Ford said softly. Stan looked at him, visibly concerned by Ford’s tone.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” A cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun. Panic swelled in Ford’s chest. A hand rested on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Ford?” Stan asked gently. Ford could feel himself shaking. The lighthearted mood of only a moment ago had been banished by the specter of Bill hanging over him.

_Why do I keep forgetting about Bill? For that matter, why didn’t Bill possess me when I fell asleep? Unless he has some sort of long con planned_. Ford’s knees knocked together.

“Ford?”

_What is he planning? Hasn’t he tortured me enough? No, of course he hasn’t. He’ll never be satisfied._

“Ford!”

_And now that I’m a child, I’ll be a much easier target. I can’t protect myself at all. What if he goes after Stanley? Or uses _me_ to go after Stanley? We aren’t exactly best of friends anymore, but I don’t want him to be in Bill’s crosshairs._

“Stanford!” Someone was shaking him. Ford broke free of his panicked thoughts. Stan crouched in front of him, fear and worry warring on his face. Ford stared at him. “Talk to me, buddy.”

“Don’t call me buddy,” Ford mumbled weakly.

“What the hell just happened?” Stan asked. Ford looked down at the clothes in his arms. “Did it have something to do with Bill?” After a moment, Ford nodded. “We’ll talk now, then.” Stan scooped the clothes from Ford’s arms. “I’ll carry these, you just head inside.”

“Okay,” Ford said softly. With Stan close behind him, Ford made his way to the front door. Just before stepping inside, he glanced back at the forest. Branches undulated in the wind. Even now, in the middle of the day, there was a darkness in the trees. One that could host any sort of terror within. Another chill ran down Ford’s spine.

_What did Mom call that feeling? Oh, right._ Ford swallowed. _Someone walking over your grave_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of my multichaps on this account are currently on hiatus, as I'm working on completing my thesis and won't be able to update them until I'm done. This fic, however, will have a regular upload schedule. Why? Because it's already been completed.
> 
> I reread the amazing fic "1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back" recently and was inspired to write my own take on how things would be different if Ford was de-aged instead of Stan. Hopefully I did the idea justice.
> 
> As always, if you have questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	2. Ricochet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ricochet** (noun): a shot or hit that rebounds one or more times off a surface

Ford sat on the couch in his study, abruptly feeling drained. Was it the leftover exhaustion from the last week or so? A side effect of becoming a child? Children did need naps, after all, though Ford had no idea whether children of his current biological age did. Or was it simply that Bill filled him with a panicked energy, and sharing the information with Stan had helped to ease that burden, share it? Ford wasn’t sure which one, but as a tense silence fell, he resisted the urge to look at Stan, sitting next to him.

“Okay.” Ford stared at Stan, surprised by the single word response. Stan’s expression was thunderous in a way that Ford remembered from their childhood. It was the same look Stan would get any time someone messed with Ford. The implication was dumbfounding.

_Does…does Stanley want to _punch_ Bill?_

“I had no idea what to expect when I came here, but this sure as hell ain’t it,” Stan said, putting his hands on his knees. His eyes were still stormy, but he plastered on a lighthearted smile as he looked at Ford. Discomfort began to uncoil in Ford’s stomach.

_He’s treating me like a child._ From the moment he’d awoken, Ford had gotten the feeling that Stan was, so to speak, using kid gloves. He’d banished that feeling, telling himself that it was just his misperception of Stan’s protective nature. But he could no longer dismiss that possibility. Not with Stan smiling at him so reassuringly after being told his own brother had made a deal with a literal demon. Ford opened his mouth to tell Stan off. _Although, isn’t this better?_ Their brief reunion as adults had been tempestuous and violent, and all Ford wanted at the moment, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, was a calm voice speaking warm words.

“Why are you taking this so well?” Ford finally asked. Stan shrugged.

“I’ve been through a lot,” he said vaguely. “This is the weirdest thing I’ve seen, yeah, but it’s not the worst. Nah, that’d be…” Stan shook his head. “Never mind.”

“I just told you that if I fall asleep, I could become possessed by a demon!” Ford protested. Stan raised an eyebrow at him.

“Then why didn’t you get possessed earlier?” he asked. Ford flushed with anger.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No, I do. After seeing you get turned into a kid, I can wrap my mind around this weird shit. Also, you’re a terrible liar,” Stan added. Ford flushed again, but this time from embarrassment. “Seriously, why didn’t you get possessed when you fell asleep last night?”

“I- I don’t know,” Ford confessed. “Maybe it’s because my body was so weak that Bill deemed it pointless to control.”

“Brute force isn’t the only way to get things done. If he’d taken you over and asked me to turn on that – what was it, a portal? If he’d asked me to turn it on again, I woulda done it.” Stan spoke casually, like he wasn’t discussing events that could bring about the apocalypse. “You say he’s a smart guy. He coulda found a way around you being stuck like this.” Stan poked Ford’s small, hairless chest. “So why didn’t he?”

“I…” Ford was lost for words. Stan’s logic seemed airtight. Bill had billions of years of experience. Ford being stuck as a child wouldn’t have been a major hurdle, just a minor annoyance. But Ford couldn’t think of a single reason why Bill didn’t do anything while he slept. Ford rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“You look like you could use a nap.”

“I can’t sleep. Not until we protect the house from Bill’s influence. Otherwise, he could possess me this time.”

“Can he?”

“Stanley-” Ford started. Stan held up his hands.

“Think about it. Are you still the same person Bill made a deal with?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ford demanded.

“For one thing, you’re a kid.”

“I- yes.”

“Minors can’t sign contracts, y’know.”

“I highly doubt Bill would care about the finer points of legal arbitration,” Ford snapped. 

“Fair.” Stan was now looking at Ford with a careful eye, like he was trying to find something out of place. “I don’t think you are.”

“You don’t think I’m what?” Ford sighed, tiredness beginning to seep back.

“The same person that Bill made a deal with.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m not physically the same person, mentally, I am. And Bill’s domain is the mind.”

“Are you sure about that?” Stan’s voice was soft, careful. Like he was prodding at a wound to see how severe it was, prepared to retreat the second it began to throb. Ford was silent. He waited for Stan to elaborate. “You, uh, I think you don’t remember this, but when you first got turned into a kid, you had a breakdown.” Fuzzy memories began to surface in Ford’s mind. “And not like, a breakdown that you woulda had if you were an adult. The kind a kid has.”

Ford could see it now. Stan crouched next to him, his face and voice infuriatingly calm. Instructing him to breathe in and out, to let his mind lay still until he could collect himself. Ford pulled his legs up and close to his chest, feeling his face burn from shame.

_I fell apart like a child in front of Stanley._

“Hey. It’s okay.” Stan rested his hand on Ford’s shoulder. “You’re a kid. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

_Yes, Stanley’s always enjoyed spending time with children_. Even when they were teenagers, Stan would jump at the opportunity to mentor kids younger than them. Ford could remember clearly one brisk autumn day, Stan telling a long story to a group of children that, by the time he was done talking, had more than doubled in size.

_“You should be a babysitter,” he’d teased Stan that day, once all the children had dispersed. Stan had flashed him that crooked grin he always kept locked and loaded._

_“Nah. This is just for fun.” A contemplative look had brushed across his face then, an expression Stan rarely wore. “And, I guess, for practice.”_

_“Practice? For what?”_

_“…Being a dad,” Stan had answered softly, like he was worried saying it would prevent it from happening._

_“A- really, you want to be a dad?”_

_“Yeah.” Stan had hunched his shoulders up then, retreating into his defensive, closed-off position. The conversation was over. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”_

“Uh, Ford?” Stan’s voice drew Ford out of the memory. He blinked up at Stan. “You kinda disappeared for a second there. You okay?”

“Yes. I was just…remembering something,” Ford said quietly. Stan seemed like he wanted to press further, but he dropped it.

“Well, like I said, I really don’t think you’re the same person Bill made a deal with.”

_Right. We were discussing Bill._

“I sorta wonder…can you feel him?”

“Pardon?” Ford asked, still recovering from the abrupt tonal shift between his fond memory and the present.

“In movies or TV or whatever, if someone gets into your mind, you can feel them.” Stan’s eyes bore into Ford. “Can you feel him?”

“No,” Ford answered truthfully. He frowned. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I- I _should_ be able to sense his presence at the back of my mind. I haven’t warded myself or the house against his influence, after all.” Confusion colored his voice. “The only reason I wouldn’t be able to detect him would be if the deal had been broken.” Ford looked up at Stan again. “…You might be right.” Stan merely nodded. “Of course, if Bill were to possess another person and come after me-”

“How did you summon him?”

“I read an incantation off a cave wall.”

“And what are the odds someone else would do that same thing?” Stan asked. Ford had to think about that for a moment.

“Even in Gravity Falls, I’d say low.”

“So he’s not a problem, then.”

“He most certainly is.”

“Yeah.” Stan’s expression had turned thoughtful. “But not the biggest one right now.”

“…That would be an apt assumption,” Ford grumbled. “I suppose the pressing matter is returning myself to my appropriate age. I’ll need to examine the portal, go over the output data from while it was running, and I should probably-”

“Uh, no, Sixer,” Stan said, interrupting him. “The biggest problem isn’t that you’re small. It’s that you’re dead on your feet.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yep. After you rest.”

“I don’t have time to-”

“You just admitted you did,” Stan said quickly. Ford scowled at him. “If you have time to spend working on turning yourself into an adult again, you have time to spend resting.”

“I don’t-”

“You’ve been a kid for less than a day,” Stan said in a pleading voice. Taken aback by the plaintive tone, Ford was quiet. “I’m not your dad, I’m not your legal guardian. But I’m already half-convinced that Child Services is gonna break down that door and take you away. And then the cops’ll throw me in jail for child neglect.” Stan’s voice hitched slightly. “I’ve got a lot on my record, but I’ll be damned if I let that get added to the list.”

“But-”

“You’re a kid,” Stan said firmly. The pleading was gone, replaced by determination. “And not just any kid. You’re my brother. That means you’re under my jurisdiction. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” Stan met Ford’s eyes. “You’re gonna take a nap. I’m gonna fix the broken heater. When you wake up, we’ll have food and clean up this sty of a house.”

“Since when have you cared about cleaning?” Ford mumbled.

“There’s pieces of rusty metal on the damn floor. You’re not gonna get tetanus on my watch.” Stan took a breath. “And then we’ll go to bed. And we’ll do those things for however long it takes for you to get back on your feet. _Then_ we’ll try to turn you back.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“Kids can’t handle this stuff!” Stan said, gesturing at Ford. “They’re not designed to live on coffee. You need sleep and you need food. So that’s what you’re gonna get. Whether you like it or not.” Part of Ford wanted to continue arguing. But the rest of him was simply too tired. He rubbed his eyes again.

“…Very well.” Ford yawned widely. “We’ll revisit this tomorrow, though.”

“Sure. We can do that.” The fervent passion that had filled Stan moments ago seemed to have faded. He watched Ford with a fond expression. “Let’s get you to bed.” He picked Ford up.

“Stanley, you don’t…need…to…” Before Ford could finish his sentence, his heavy eyelids closed.

Sometimes, Stan wondered how things might have been. There were a lot of scenarios that he would play in his mind while he waited to fall asleep in the latest dingy motel room. But there was one he kept coming back to, particularly with the current situation. As he attempted to comb Ford’s unruly hair, Stan wondered what would have happened if those pregnancy scares he’d had with previous girlfriends hadn’t been false alarms.

He always felt stupid wondering about it. He wasn’t the type to get tied down, and it was for the best that he didn’t knock up the women who left him and stole from him, sometimes in that order, sometimes in the reverse order. Stan felt like an idiot for merely thinking about it, so he did his best to quash the small part of him that wanted it. That wanted to be a dad. It was difficult to suppress, though, and felt especially difficult right now. Stan set down the hairbrush and crouched down to Ford’s eye-height to look intently at him.

After only two nights of full sleep, Ford seemed healthier, though still much more sickly than Stan ever remembered him being at this age. At least the circles under his eyes were hidden by his glasses. The plan was to use some of the money Ford had left to buy some groceries, but Stan had been uncertain of whether he’d take Ford along, depending on what shape he was in. Stan managed a smile and ruffled Ford’s hair. Ford pouted.

“Why bother brushing my hair when you were going to mess with it right after?” Ford asked.

“It’s what people do to cute kids like you, Sixer. Better get used to it,” Stan replied, straightening to his full height. “I think we’re good to go. You sure you remember the way to the grocery store?” Ford bobbed his head. “Good. So, what are the rules?” Ford sighed.

“We’re posing as a regular father and regular son visiting a relative,” he rattled off. “The relative we’re supposedly visiting is actually me.”

“And?” Stan prodded. Ford scowled.

“And I can act precocious, but I still have to act like a child.”

“Yep.” Stan dug his car keys out of his back pocket. “Let’s go buy some food.”

The drive to the store was uneventful, aside from the brief shouting match over where Ford would sit in the car. While Ford was napping the day before, Stan had dug out the book on rules for the road that he kept in the glove box. He couldn’t decide whether he was proud or embarrassed that the thing had clearly never been read.

“I told you, the law is that people under thirteen can’t ride in the front seat,” Stan said for the twentieth time, looking at Ford in the back seat. Ford scowled and slumped further down his seat.

“Caring about driving laws is incredibly out of character for you,” Ford griped. Stan turned his attention back to the road, biting back his explanation, that he was determined to stay out of trouble for Ford’s sake. “Actually, caring about laws in general is out of character. Or was it not you who stole multiple items of clothing for me yesterday?”

“Kids’ clothes are expensive,” Stan grunted. “So are speeding tickets. All I’m doin’ is saving as much money as possible.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Ford muttered. He simmered in barely controlled anger as the car was parked, they grabbed a cart, and up to the moment they walked into the grocery store. One step past the automatic doors and Stan could feel small, six-fingered hands gripping his jacket. Stan looked down at his brother. Ford seemed terrified, but Stan wasn’t sure why. He crouched down.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. Ford looked down at his feet.

“N-nothing.”

“C’mon, Ford, you can talk to me.”

“Bill.”

“Don’t worry, Sixer. Even if he’s here – and he isn’t – I won’t let him hurt you. Got it?” Stan said. After a moment, Ford nodded jerkily. He was still visibly nervous, but even the small reassurance seemed to have calmed him down a bit. “Good.” Stan stood again. “Any clue where the bread aisle is?”

“Um…” Ford looked around, clearly out of his depth. “No.”

“Guess we’ll just wander around until we find something, then.” Before they could even begin their search, a woman swooped in and peered closely at Ford.

“Well aren’t you just the cutest cutie to ever be cute,” the woman gushed. Ford blanched and hid behind Stan’s leg. Stan forced a laugh.

“He’s a bit shy, Miss…?”

“Susan,” the woman supplied, sticking out her hand. Stan shook the offered hand, unleashing the wide, smarmy smile he used as a traveling salesman.

“Susan. It’s great to meet you.” Stan broke off the handshake and patted Ford’s head. “Like I said, my son here is pretty shy. Especially in new places.”

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t look very familiar. Where are you from?”

“Vermont.” Stan wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen that state, but he went with it. “Ford and I are visiting my brother. He lives here.”

“Isn’t that nice.”

“Yep. We don’t get to see him very often, so it’s a treat. We’re actually here to pick up some groceries for dinner. Do you know where the bread is?”

“Of course! Third aisle.”

“Thanks.” Stan winked at Susan, who giggled, waved at Ford, and then exited the store. Stan let out a soft sigh. “Now we know where the bread is. That wasn’t too bad, was it, Ford?” Stan looked down. His eyes widened. The boy that had been clinging to his leg a moment ago was gone. “Uh, Ford?” Stan spun in a circle, panic rising like bile in his throat.

_Don’t panic. Don’t freak out_. Stan swallowed. _He’s still in the store. Just look for him. He can’t have gotten far_. Stan began to make his way down the various aisles, fear mounting as each one was distinctly free of twelve-fingered eight-year-olds. He just finished the canned goods aisle when his ears picked up on a high-pitched voice.

“But it’s me!”

_Ford_. Stan took off in a sprint, rounding the corner to see Ford talking to a visibly disheveled and disoriented man. The man smiled weakly at Ford.

“I told ya, sugar plum, I don’t know who ya are. And I think I’d remember a lil one as cute as you,” the man said in a thick southern accent. Stan walked up behind Ford and put a hand on his shoulder. Ford froze.

“Sorry, sir,” Stan said through gritted teeth. Ford had the grace to act abashed. “My son can get excited.”

“Oh, that ain’t no problem,” the man said, waving a hand airily. His hair stuck out in all directions and his clothes were visibly stained and torn. Stan wasn’t sure what his deal was, but he was glad to see the stranger grab his basket and walk away.

“You’re lucky I can’t ground you, because if I could, you’d be grounded for a month after that,” Stan ground out once the stranger was gone. Ford turned around and crossed his arms.

“I was merely talking to an acquaintance.”

“You sure? He didn’t seem to recognize you.”

“Wh- of course he didn’t recognize me,” Ford scoffed, throwing his arms up in the air. “I’m eight! The last time I saw him, I was my chronological age.”

“Why were you trying to get him to recognize you anyways?” Stan asked. “I thought we were gonna be discrete.”

“Yes, but…” Ford looked away. “He was my research partner. He’s the one best suited for helping me with my situation.” Ford drooped slightly, like he bore the weight of something.

_Clearly, something happened with Ford and that guy. But we can talk about it at home._

“We’re just getting food today,” Stan reminded Ford. Ford nodded sullenly. “Tomorrow if you’re up for doing things, we can try to find this guy again.” Stan held out his hand. Ford glared at him. “You ran off. Either you’re holding my hand or I’m holding yours.” Ford reluctantly took a hold of Stan’s hand. “By the way, what’s that guy’s name?”

“Fiddleford. Fiddleford McGucket.”

Despite Stan’s assurance that they would seek out Fiddleford the next day, they didn’t. They didn’t look the next day, either. Stan had taken one look at Ford both those days and deemed him too physically weak to go on a search. Ford found himself unable to protest too vociferously; Stan was right that children weren’t built to run under the conditions Ford had been subjecting himself to as an adult.

Two weeks had now passed since the initial incident. Ford sat on the floor in the living room, perusing his journal for any information he might have missed, while Stan folded laundry.

“Any luck?” Stan asked, neatly folding one of the T-shirts he’d stolen for Ford. Ford scowled down at the journal.

“No. I told you, the only way to make any progress into a cure is to get outside help.”

“Why?” Stan asked idly. “I did all the stuff you asked me to do. Grabbed the ‘data output’ from the portal, found the other blueprints that you hid in the woods for some reason. How would this Fiddlesticks guy be able to figure out something that you haven’t?” That was a question Ford had been asking himself lately. Part of him worried that the regression was blocking certain aspects of his mental faculties. He understood all of his research, which was promising. But when trying to reverse engineer conclusions he’d made previously, he found himself struggling with the logic behind them.

_It’s like I have all the information I need, but lack the reasoning and logical skill to connect the dots_. Ford realized that Stan had been waiting for an answer.

“He’s…a very smart man,” Ford said quietly. “His area of expertise is different than mine, so he might have some different ideas than I do.”

“Makes sense.” Stan set aside the folded T-shirt. “C’mere.” Ford got up and plodded over to Stan. Stan pressed the back of his hand against Ford’s forehead. “You’re still a bit warm.” Ford pouted. Last week, Ford had caught what he insisted was a nasty cold, but Stan was convinced was something more insidious.

_ Just because I had a slight fever, Stan acted like I was on my deathbed. Granted, I did feel ill and weak, but that’s what colds do!_

“I’m feeling better,” Ford argued.

“Yeah, and you look better, too.” Stan sighed. His hand dropped to his lap. “But I don’t think you should go running around town looking for Fiddlesticks.”

“His name is Fiddleford.”

“Whatever his name is.” Stan took a pair of pants from the pile of laundry. “We’re not gonna go on a wild goose chase yet.”

_Dammit, Stan!_ Ford had learned by now that if he wanted to get his way, he couldn’t argue. Stan would immediately shut down and refuse to listen to him. The trick to successfully wheedling his brother was to do what Stan had mentioned at the beginning. Weaponize his adorable appearance. _If that’s what I need to do, then I’ll do it. I remember Fiddleford’s regular haunts. I can convince Stanley to take me to one._

“Stanley?” Ford adopted a high, plaintive tone. Stan looked up from the clothes. Ford widened his eyes. An odd look crossed Stan’s face. “Could we go to the library today?”

“Really? You wanna leave the house?” Stan asked. Ford nodded vigorously. He felt his unruly curls bounce. “You know that whenever we leave the house, you have to pretend to be my son.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you wanna leave?”

“I’m _bored_,” Ford said. It came out as a whine without him intending it to. A small grin appeared on Stan’s face for a second before he stifled it. “You won’t let me do _anything_.”

“Yep.” Stan took another shirt from the hamper. “Last time you did something, you made a deal with a demon and got turned eight.” 

“Please, Stanley, I want to pick up some books to read. Like I said, I’m bored. I need to occupy my time with something.”

“Well, you _did_ say the magic word,” Stan said slowly. “All right, we’ll head out after the laundry’s done.” Ford crossed his arms.

“Why is it that you’re suddenly so responsible? I’ve never seen you do laundry without being threatened first.”

“I got a kid to look after,” Stan said with a shrug. “If I fuck up, I don’t just screw things for me, I screw things for you. I’m done screwin’ things for you.” He glanced at Ford. Ford looked away quickly, preventing Stan from seeing his expression.

“Well, how long do you think you’ll take?” Ford asked, in a carefully measured tone.

“Dunno. But it’d go faster if I had help,” Stan said. Ford huffed again, but sat down on the floor and took a pair of pants from the hamper.

“I’m not good at folding,” Ford muttered.

“You’re a physicist. You’ll figure it out.”

The Gravity Falls Public Library was somehow even less like a library than Stan had imagined, which was saying something. But the second they’d set foot inside, Ford had darted off to the Classics section, leaving Stan alone to wander around. Stan ambled over to a pile of newspapers and picked up the one on top. He was glad Ford seemed better after getting sick the week before, but knew that if Ford tried to push himself too hard, he’d end up bedridden again.

_People always said I was the stubborn one. They were wrong. We’re both stubborn as all hell_. Stan sighed and dropped the newspaper back onto the pile. _How Mom managed to raise us without tearing all her hair out, I have no idea._ He glanced over at the Classics section. _Letting him run off might not have been a good idea._

“Please, just listen to me!” Ford’s voice begged. Stan blanched.

_It definitely wasn’t a good idea_. Stan strode quickly in the direction of the Classics section. As he approached, he could hear another voice speaking to Ford.

“Cutie, I _am_ listenin’. And I think ya have a wonderful imagination. But we should prob’ly find yer parents, okay?”

“My parents aren’t-”

“Ford,” Stan said shortly, finally catching sight of Ford talking to the same person he’d accosted at the grocery store.

_Fiddlesticks, right? Something like that._ Ford glared at Stan.

“Not now,” Ford hissed.

“I told you to stop bothering people.” Stan walked over to Ford’s side. He placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Sorry about him, Mr.…?”

“McGucket. Fiddleford McGucket.”

“Got it. Sorry about him, Fiddleford.”

“No problem,” Fiddleford said with a soft chuckle. “It’s difficult to get upset with eager children. They’re so excited to tell the world ‘bout every thought that crosses their minds. It’s rather charmin’ of ‘em.” Fiddleford looked at Stan. A strange expression crossed his face. His gaze became more focused, his eyes roving over Stan’s features. “If we’re goin’ to be crossin’ paths this frequently, maybe you should tell me your name, too.”

“Uh, Stan. Stan Pines.” The effect was immediate. Fiddleford recoiled from him, backing into the shelf behind him. A few books tumbled to the ground.

“Pines,” Fiddleford rasped.

“…Yeah. That’s- that’s my last name. Buddy, you all right?”

“I- that- I knew yer face was familiar.” Fiddleford kneaded his forehead. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to that rat bastard Stanford Pines, would ya?” Stan couldn’t help it. A small snort slipped out. Ford scowled at him.

“He’s my twin brother.”

“Why didn’t he-” Fiddleford muttered to himself. He shook his head. “Never mind. I guess yer visitin’ him, then?”

“Technically, yeah.”

“And you brought yer son.” Fiddleford shook his head again. “That weren’t the best idea. He’s not safe.” A heavy discomfort began to settle in Stan’s stomach. “It’d be fer the best if the both of ya left Gravity Falls.”

“I mean…that’s the plan. Eventually.”

“No, do it sooner rather than later,” Fiddleford said firmly.

“I have to help him with something,” Stan said. Fiddleford locked his eyes with Stan’s, a sympathetic expression on his face.

“Speakin’ from experience, the longer ya help him, the worse it ends up bein’ fer you. Really, you should leave while ya still can.”

“I- I can’t leave.”

“Oh, really?” Fiddleford crossed his arms. “Why?”

“Because…” Stan looked down at Ford. Ford took the opportunity to step forward. He took a hold of one of Fiddleford’s hands.

“Fiddleford, it’s me,” Ford said quietly. “I’m not Stanley’s son. I’m- it’s me. Stanford.” Fiddleford’s jaw dropped. “There was an accident, and-”

“I s’ppose you want my help,” Fiddleford said, his voice thick. “Well, yer a world-class genius, right? You can figure it out on yer own.” He pulled his hand out of Ford’s grasp. “Best of luck to ya.”

“No, Fiddleford, please,” Ford begged. “I don’t- I _can’t_ do it on my own.” Fiddleford now seemed conflicted by Ford’s pleading. “I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done, but I desperately need your help, I-” Tears sparkled in the corners of Ford’s eyes.

_Either he’s laying it on extra thick or he actually feels terrible about whatever happened_. Whether Ford was acting or not, it worked. Fiddleford gently stroked Ford’s hair.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I’ll- I’ll at least hear ya make yer case. I can’t promise I’ll help, but I’ll listen.” Ford nodded tearfully. He leaned against Stan’s leg. “I took my own car here, so I’ll meet ya back at yer place.”

“Got it,” Stan said with a nod. He cleared his throat. “Um, and thanks.” Fiddleford stood. His face hardened.

“Don’t thank me quite yet. I said I’ll listen, not that I’ll help.”

“Either way. I- we appreciate it.”

“…Well, I ain’t exactly heartless,” Fiddleford mumbled. With that, he walked away. Stan looked at Ford, who was still using his leg as support.

“You didn’t need more books, did you?” Stan asked. Ford shot Stan a small grin. Stan sighed. “This is what I get for telling you that I could be manipulated by cute kids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Fiddleford has appeared! And yes, I did do my best to come up with an in-universe excuse to avoid dealing with Bill. Expect the next chapter next week; I'll be uploading weekly on Thursdays.
> 
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	3. Collateral Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Collateral damage** (noun): damage that is unintended or incidental to the intended outcome

The kitchen was filled with a surge of hyperactive energy so strong that Stan could feel his own fingers and toes buzzing from merely being in the room. The source of the energy was Ford, who couldn’t seem to decide what exactly he was doing. He manically rocketed from the table to the counter to the stove to the fridge. Stan managed to grab Ford during one of the short sprints.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said firmly. “You’re at twenty. I’m gonna need you to dial it back to about three.” Ford wriggled in his arms.

“But Fiddleford is-”

“I get that you’re excited your friend’s coming over, but you’ve gotta calm down. I swear, I’m gonna trip over you if you keep this up.”

“But-”

“The best way to rein in an out of control child ain’t exactly calm discussion,” a voice said. Ford froze. Fiddleford appeared in the entryway to the kitchen. “A sit’ation like this is resolved by threatenin’ to withhold the thing the kidlet’s excited ‘bout.” Fiddleford fixed an analytical gaze on Ford. “Of course, my experience comes from dealin’ with actual children, not scientists what landed themselves in hot water.”

“Uh, hey, Fiddlesticks,” Stan said.

“Fiddle_ford_,” Ford and Fiddleford corrected.

“Yeah. That.”

“Hope ya don’t mind that I let m’self in. Still had my old key.”

“Your old-” Stan frowned. “Did you live here with Ford?”

“Fer a while, sure,” Fiddleford said vaguely.

“You guys really need to fill me in on your history,” Stan said. He looked down at Ford. “I’m gonna let you go now, but if you try to tackle Fiddle…ford, I swear, I’ll lock you in your room.” Ford pouted. “Don’t make that face at me. Are you gonna be calm now?”

“…Yes,” Ford mumbled.

“Good.” Stan released Ford, who, after a split second of standing completely still, bolted out of the room. “Son of a- he better not break anything.” Stan looked at Fiddleford. “I think once he runs off some of that energy, he’ll be ready to talk.” Fiddleford merely nodded silently. “Last week, he caught something that put him in bed for days. I forgot how wild kids get once they bounce back from being sick.”

“Mm-hmm.” Fiddleford looked in the direction Ford had rushed off. “Say, has he been actin’ like a kid a lot?”

“Uh, depends. Some days, he seems more like a kid than others. Like today, he-” Ford ran into the kitchen again and skidded to a halt in front of Fiddleford, papers in his arms. Fiddleford looked at Stan meaningfully.

“We’ll have this conversation later,” he said. Stan nodded. Ford looked back and forth between Stan and Fiddleford.

“What conversation?”

“Sharing parenting tips,” Stan said, playfully ruffling Ford’s hair. Ford shoved his hands away.

“Fiddleford told you about his son already? Did he show you the pictures he keeps in his wallet?” Ford asked. Stan frowned.

“What?” He looked at Fiddleford. “You’ve got a kid.”

“…Yes,” Fiddleford said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Tate’s in California with his mom right now.”

“Oh.” Stan looked at Ford again. “What you got there?”

“Data!” Ford said cheerfully, holding up the papers in his arms. “I thought that once we convinced Fiddleford to help, he could go over the data with me and we could work on coming up with a cure.” Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well, the first step there is convincin’ me to help. So we best start with that step, ‘cause I ain’t leanin’ in yer favor quite yet.” Ford grinned.

“Right.” He gestured at the kitchen table. “Please, Fiddleford, take a seat. Stanley and I will make our case.”

Despite – or maybe because of – Fiddleford’s protests that he still might not help, Stan didn’t believe it for a second. Fiddleford kept watching Ford with a fondness that Stan guessed came from having a son of his own. Every now and then, Fiddleford’s expression sharpened, like he’d remembered who Ford was, but overall, Fiddleford seemed much softer than he’d been in the library when he’d cursed Ford’s name.

“So, like I said, Stanley has done a remarkably good job at assisting me in general care, but he lacks the scientific expertise to assist in the discovery of both the cause of my regression and the potential cure,” Ford finished. Fiddleford sat back in his seat, feigning a thoughtful demeanor that Stan could see right through.

“I see,” Fiddleford said slowly. He took a breath. “Well, I ain’t exactly the kind of person who would turn down such an eloquent request from a child.” He looked at Stan. “Though I’d like to hear yer perspective on this, Stanley.” Stan blinked, surprised.

“Uh, basically, just what Ford said. I can reach things for him and take him places, but I can’t do anything in the lab.”

“Hmm.” Fiddleford steepled his fingers. He let out a small sigh. “I’ll help.” Ford jumped up in his chair. “I ain’t goin’ _near_ that portal, though. I’ll look over the data you’ve collected, see if there’s somethin’ Stanford missed.” Ford beamed.

“Excellent!” His stomach rumbled. “…Oh.” Ford looked at Stan. “Stanley, would you-”

“I can see about doin’ something for dinner,” Stan said. “Why don’t you and Fiddlewhatever start going over some of that data of yours while I whip up some spaghetti and meatballs, huh?” Ford beamed again. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan could see Fiddleford’s look shift to contemplative.

“Will do.” Ford gathered the papers he’d brought into the kitchen. “Fiddleford, we can talk in the living room.” He shot a glare at Stan. “Stanley claims he needs silence to cook well.”

“I can’t help it. Gotta be able to focus,” Stan said airily. Ford rolled his eyes and hopped off his chair.

“If you say so. By the way, his name is Fiddleford. Say it correctly.” Ford marched into the living room. Fiddleford glanced at Stan as he followed Ford out. Their eyes met. Stan felt a shiver run down his spine at Fiddleford’s expression. He shook the feeling away and began gathering what he needed for dinner.

_That bag of skin and bones is damn perceptive, isn’t he? He won’t be as easy to fool as Ford._

Most engineers had the reputation of being better with machines than people. Fiddleford considered himself an exception. Sure, there were days that he felt more comfortable with nuts and bolts and scrap metal, but he’d never been one to struggle to understand people. Growing up with five siblings and more cousins than you could shake a stick at would do that. So he knew from the second he walked into the eerily clean house that something odd was going on.

_Luckily, after bein’ in Gravity Falls fer so long, I’m experienced in oddities_. Fiddleford sat silently at the kitchen table while he watched Stan attempt to get Ford into bed. A process that began with verbal commands, then progressed quickly to Stan physically picking Ford up and taking him somewhere else. Fiddleford pursed his lips. _Stanford’s never particularly enjoyed sleep, but I haven’t seen his protests be so immature before._ He looked down at the data spread out on the table. _That fits with what I’m seein’ here._ At some point during his visit, it had begun to rain. The distinct drumming of raindrops soothed his frazzled, frantic mind. _This data tells me what happened, but not how. How did the portal malfunction in this way?_

“Sorry about that,” Stan said, walking into the kitchen again. “Ford hates that I make him go to bed at 8:30, but if he doesn’t, he turns into a gremlin the next day.” Fiddleford waved a hand.

“That ain’t no problem. Children need their sleep. Even if they’re really in their late twenties.”

“Heh. Yeah.” Stan sat down across from Fiddleford. “You want something to drink? Ford had a years’ supply of coffee when I showed up. Or if you want something stronger, I’m pretty sure there’s some liquor around here somewhere.” Fiddleford shook his head.

“No need fer drinks. I’m a bit surprised ya haven’t just tossed the coffee out, though. Stanford’s addicted to it somethin’ fierce, and it ain’t good fer children. It’ll stunt their growth.”

“Well, I tried hiding it at first,” Stan said, “but then he found it and made some while I was out. For some reason, though, he didn’t have more than a sip. He said it tasted terrible.” Stan shrugged. “I tried some. It wasn’t the best coffee I’d ever had, but it definitely wasn’t the worst.” Fiddleford nodded, not surprised by this. Again, it seemed in line with the readouts from the portal that Ford had showed him.

_Immature tastes to match an immature body._

“I have to say, Stanley, I’m impressed,” Fiddleford said. He clasped his hands together and tried to ignore how his fingers were far too thin. Stan eyed him suspiciously.

“Really?” Stan’s tone was doubtful, bordering on incredulous.

_Almost like he don’t believe someone would be impressed with him._ Fiddleford chewed on that thought for a moment. _That’s somethin’ to pursue later._

“Yes. You seem to have taken to this like a fish to water,” Fiddleford replied calmly. Stan blew out an impatient breath.

“With what? The weird shit here?”

“Well, yes, though that wasn’t what I was referrin’ to.” Fiddleford met Stan’s eyes. Stan stared determinedly back. “I was referrin’ to fatherhood.” He’d expected Stan to either brush off the compliment or soak in it – that was how Ford tended to respond, after all. Stan did neither. Fury clouded his eyes. Stan shot up, the force of his movement tossing the chair he’d been sitting in. It slammed against the wall.

“Listen, Fiddledork,” Stan snarled.

“Fiddle_ford_-”

“Ford’s not my son. He’s my _brother_.”

“I know. I wasn’t tryin’ to imply otherwise.”

“Then what the hell _were_ you implying?”

“It’s just…” Fiddleford trailed off. He glanced down at his worn and stained clothes. “I mentioned my son, Tate. He’s ten now.” Fiddleford looked up again. Stan locked his gaze with Fiddleford’s once more. “I know from experience how difficult it is to be in charge of a young boy. Sure, the circumstances here are dif’rent. Stanford’s technically an adult, after all. But just judgin’ by the few things I saw earlier and the information you’ve given me, I get the feelin’ it’s not quite as dif’rent as one would expect.” Stan reddened. His gaze immediately dropped to the table.

“…Fine.” Stan rubbed his face. “It- it feels like I’m taking care of a kid more and more. Ford refuses to take baths, won’t eat vegetables, and fights with me when I try to get him to go to bed. At first, he did those things without arguing. He knew that he needed to in order to stay healthy. Kids can’t run on fumes all the time like Ford had been before I showed up. And he knew that.” Stan grabbed his chair, brought it back to the table, and sat down. “But lately, it’s like he’s forgotten all of that.”

“He hasn’t forgotten. He’s just slippin’ into a more childlike mindset. It’s more difficult fer him to think rationally and logically right now.”

“Why?” Stan demanded. “He was fine at first. What-” Stan’s breath caught in his throat. “Is it _my_ fault that he’s becoming more of a kid?”

“No! No, not at all,” Fiddleford said quickly. “It has to do with the source of his regression.” Stan straightened.

“You figured out what caused it, then? Already?”

“Yes and no.” Fiddleford clasped his hands. “Luckily, Stanford has been runnin’ some tests on himself from day one, usin’ equipment I designed myself. He wasn’t able to interpret the data, but I could.” Fiddleford began to shuffle through the papers on the table. “The output from the portal on the day this whole thing started indicates that the energy you saw hit Ford was from another dimension.”

“Another dimension?”

“Another reality,” Fiddleford said. “Multiverse theory holds that there’s an infinite number of universes, some similar to ours, some drastically different, all of ‘em theoretically accessible if one punches a hole in the fabric of the space-time continuum.” Stan furrowed his brow.

“That’s what the machine in the basement does?” he asked. “It rips the fabric of the universe?”

“Essentially, yes.” Fiddleford cocked his head. “Have ya heard of multiverse theory before?”

“Uh, no, not exactly.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “I read a lot of comic books when I was a kid, though, and this sounds like some of the stuff that happened in my favorite titles.” Stan let out a small, dry laugh. “Of course my brother would be making the stuff from comic books real.” Fiddleford smiled slightly. “How do you know the lightning I saw was from a different dimension?”

“The sensors in the basement recognized it as havin’ a dif’rent energy signature than things in this universe.”

“What do you mean by energy signature?” Stan asked slowly. Fiddleford hummed.

“How familiar are ya with quarks and wave-particle duality?”

“…I don’t know what either of those things are.” Stan looked away. “I dunno if Ford told you anything about me when you two were nerding out earlier, but I didn’t even graduate high school. I’m not a genius like Ford. I’m not smart at all.”

“I highly doubt that,” Fiddleford said. Stan snorted. “There are dif’rent forms that intelligence takes. Fer example, my pa, he didn’t graduate high school, either. But he knows how to run a farm and manage a fam’ly. Two things that Stanford, fer all his brains, would have no idea to do. I have the philosophy that everyone is smart in some way. It’s just that all ways of bein’ smart don’t get recognized as such.” Stan was silent. The sound of rain hitting the roof filled the room. Fiddleford cleared his throat. “…Anyways, if yer not familiar with the concepts I mentioned, ya prob’ly won’t get much out of my explanation.”

“Probably,” Stan mumbled.

“Just know that the energy what hit Ford wasn’t from this universe.” Stan nodded. “And right now, Ford isn’t from this universe, either.” Stan’s eyes widened. He whipped his head back around to stare at Fiddleford.

“What?!” he yelped. Fiddleford held up his hands.

“Maybe I should’ve phrased that more delicately. The lil boy sleepin’ right now is still the Stanford we both know.” Stan relaxed. “But at the same time, he’s not.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not in the mood for riddles,” Stan said, exasperated.

“Okay.” Fiddleford took a breath. “He’s currently givin’ off the same energy signature as the electricity ya saw. Every part of him is. I’ll see ‘bout runnin’ some tests tomorrow to confirm this, but it seems to me like every cell was rewritten to match the Stanford of the dimension that energy came from.” Fiddleford drummed his fingers on the table. “That would account fer the behavioral and mental changes both you and Stanford have told me about.”

“How?”

“He’s essentially a child again. Just with the memories of bein’ an adult. A lot of skills can only be developed once yer brain finishes properly developin’. An eight-year-old don’t have a well-developed brain, so Stanford doesn’t have access to those skills he used to know. Skills like logical reasoning or emotional regulation.”

“That might explain why he’s been acting like a kid, but why has it been getting worse?” Stan asked.

“I don’t have a definitive answer, but I think it’s ‘cause he’s beginning to adjust. Initially, I’m assumin’ he struggled against his new body’s limits, and that new body also fought against him a bit, too. But as he’s gotten used to this, his mind is adjusting to fit his body.” Fiddleford shrugged. “That’s my theory, of course. Could be completely wrong. I ain’t a psychologist or a biologist by any means.”

“Does that mean the longer it takes to fix Ford, the more difficult it’ll be?” Stan asked hoarsely. “The longer he stays a kid, the less likely he’ll be able to act like an adult when he’s back to normal?”

“I doubt it. Once we figure out a way to turn Ford back into the Ford from this reality, his mind should follow suit. The mind is more malleable than ya think.” Fiddleford pursed his lips. “The bad news here, though, is that I don’t have the foggiest idea of how to fix this. My, uh, my mind ain’t quite what it used to be.”

“Why?” Stan asked. Fiddleford tensed. “Does it have to do with why you and Ford are on the rocks?”

“I’d rather not get into it,” Fiddleford mumbled. “It ain’t relevant to this.”

“You just said that it’ll make it difficult for you to fix Ford. Sounds relevant to me.”

“I can handle it. Especially with Ford to help here and there.” Fiddleford eyed Stan. “While we’re alone, I have to ask ya somethin’.”

“Shoot.”

“Stanford never told me he had a twin brother. Why’s that?”

“I-” Stan tensed, just like Fiddleford had moments ago. “It’s a long story. And one I’m not gonna tell if you don’t tell me about your history with Ford.” He smirked slightly, like he’d won some sort of argument.

“Fair,” Fiddleford said. Stan seemed a bit disappointed that Fiddleford hadn’t fought back further. He cleared his throat.

“We know how Ford got turned into a kid. But why? Why did the portal do this to him?”

“Honestly?” Fiddleford looked out the window. He could see a few gnomes scampering at the edge of the woods, despite the rain. “I have no idea.”

Over breakfast, Fiddleford told Ford what he had discovered. Ford pushed his plate of toast away angrily.

“Hey, it took me forever to figure out how to turn the toaster off of the ‘possessed’ setting,” Stan protested. Ford glared at him.

“You spoke about important matters while I was sleeping. Sleeping, might I remind you, because of your inane rules that I currently lack the physical capability to circumvent,” Ford spat. Stan picked up one of Ford’s slices of toast and took a bite.

“Now I get why you’re not hungry. You ate a dictionary for breakfast.”

“I-” Ford crossed his arms. He turned to Fiddleford. “F, are you sure of your conclusions?”

“‘Bout as sure as I can be,” Fiddleford said gently. He’d left the previous night after talking to Stan and returned in the morning. Stan assumed he had gone to his own home, but wasn’t completely sure, since Fiddleford was dressed in the same rumpled clothes as the day before. Despite that, he had clearly showered or bathed, judging by his damp hair, something Stan was relieved by.

_I had to literally drop Ford fully clothed in the tub two days ago_. Stan took another bite of the toast he’d made for Ford. _He doesn’t need to get any ideas about not bathing_. For what seemed like the millionth time, Stan felt the irony of the current situation beating at him. _Of all the people in the world, I’m the last one who should be telling someone else to shower or eat or sleep_.

“Effectively, the portal used the Stanford Pines of this alternate reality as a blueprint,” Ford said slowly. Stan shook away his thoughts and focused on what Ford was saying. “And for materials, used me.”

“Yessir.”

“It also used that blueprint to remake my clothes, using what I was wearing at the moment,” Ford said with a small sigh. He rubbed the fabric of his pants – the same pair the portal had created weeks ago – absentmindedly. “I have to admit, I’m rather relieved by that. Dealing with being a child again is bad enough. It would have been even worse if I had been left without clothes that fit me properly.”

“Or without your glasses,” Stan said. Ford grimaced.

“Yes, it would be remarkably difficult to find the appropriate eyewear for me, had the portal not provided it. I dare say that even you would have difficulty stealing glasses with my prescription without knowing what the proper prescription was.”

“Hmm.” Stan frowned thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think about that one.” Fiddleford raised his eyebrows.

“I certainly hope yer not plannin’ a heist, Stanley. After all, Stanford’s perfectly fine with the glasses he’s got now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said dismissively, still trying to work out how he would handle stealing glasses for Ford. Fiddleford sighed. He looked at Ford.

“Do ya have any questions fer me?” Fiddleford asked. Ford shook his head.

“I understand everything you’ve told me. I- I’m still struggling to understand how you interpreted the data, but I don’t need to in order to understand the results.” Ford slouched forward in his seat, resting his arms on the table. “I’m not looking forward to the gradual loss of my adult behaviors and skills that this seems to entail. I wonder if I’ll even notice when it begins.” Stan silently raised an eyebrow at Ford. Ford’s eyes widened. “Has- has it already started?”

“Yep,” Stan said. Ford swallowed.

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice small.

“Remember two days ago? When you wouldn’t take a bath?” Stan asked. Ford’s eyes widened further. “Or last night when you refused to eat a single vegetable?”

“The- the taste is-” Ford started. “And- and bathing isn’t- current research suggests washing your skin every day is _harmful_ to-”

“Yeah, that was your third day in a row without taking a bath or a shower,” Stan said. “And you know that eating vegetables is important when you’re a kid. Even if it tastes bad, it’s good for you.”

“I- yes, I know that, I just-” Ford fell silent. His head fell to the table. “My immature urges are getting the better of my logical mind,” he said, his voice slightly muffled. Fiddleford gently rested a hand on Ford’s back. Ford’s head shot up. “Son of a bitch, _that’s_ why I thought the coffee tasted horrible!” he gasped.

“Language,” Fiddleford said immediately. Ford glared at him. “That was on instinct, okay? I didn’t think ‘fore I said it.” Fiddleford removed his hand from Ford’s back. “But it wouldn’t hurt ya none to clean yer vocabulary up a bit,” he muttered. Ford let out a loud groan. His head hit the table again.

“Even if I purchased coffee from a high-end establishment, I wouldn’t like it. Children have a higher sensitivity to bitterness than adults.” His words turned into a whine near the end of the sentence. “And I _like_ coffee!” Stan rolled his eyes and began to gather the plates from breakfast. Fiddleford got up to help. They met at the sink.

“Is he goin’ to be all right?” Fiddleford whispered to Stan. Stan glanced back at Ford, who hadn’t moved.

“Probably. Why? Do you think he’s not?”

“I mean…” Fiddleford chewed on his lip. “He seems genuinely distraught.”

“He’s just being a drama queen,” Stan insisted. “Kids do that. He’s not even crying. If he was crying, I’d be concerned. But he’s not.”

“He might be forcin’ himself not to, to prove he’s mature,” Fiddleford pointed out. “I’ve seen my son do that ‘fore.” Stan rested his hands on the counter, thinking about what Fiddleford had said. “He’s been given some rather distressin’ news. Not only will he continue to act more childlike, but the process started without his knowledge.”

“That’s a fair point,” Stan mumbled. He sighed. “Fine. You’re the one who’s actually a dad. You know kids. If you say he’s upset, I- I-” Stan grimaced. His mouth was coated in a sour film, his stomach churning, like when he’d drunk spoiled milk on a dare in high school. “I’ll trust you.”

“Thank you, Stanley.” Fiddleford’s soft, gentle tone took Stan by surprise. He resisted the urge to look at Fiddleford. “I ‘ppreciate it.”

“…Whatever.” Stan took a breath. “So, kid expert, what should we do to cheer Ford up? I don’t want him to be upset for ages.” Stan thought back to Ford’s sensitivity to stress when they were children, which he grew out of by the time they were teenagers. “He’ll get a stomachache.”

“Well…” Fiddleford pursed his lips. “If it were Tate, I’d take him to the park. Tate likes nature. He’s a Boy Scout, actually.”

“Good for Tate,” Stan said under his breath. He ignored Fiddleford’s frown. “Ford likes going in the woods and seeing the spooky weird shit in there. Maybe we take him on a hike?”

“It ain’t safe fer a child to go in the woods ‘round here,” Fiddleford hissed.

“Yeah, which is why I haven’t let him go look for fairies or whatever,” Stan shot back. “But if we’re there with him-”

“I ain’t exactly bodyguard material.”

“Good thing I am.” Stan flashed a cocky grin at Fiddleford. “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed my arms yet.” To his disappointment, Stan had lost some of the fitness he’d had in high school, when he was boxing almost every day. But one thing he’d been determined to maintain was his right hook, so when other forms of exercise had fallen to the wayside, Stan still found time to go a few rounds with whatever he could use as a punching bag.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

“And like I said, I haven’t let him go in the woods. Honestly, that’s the thing that would cheer him up the most.” After a moment, Fiddleford nodded. Stan turned around to face Ford. “Hey, Sixer.”

“What?” Ford asked, lifting his head. Stan felt a slight twinge in his chest. Like Fiddleford had said, Ford was evidently more upset than he was attempting to let on. Unshed tears shone in his eyes.

“Wanna go for a hike in the forest?” Stan asked. Ford looked down at the table.

“You’re trying to placate me,” he mumbled.

“Well, I was plannin’ on bringin’ some equipment, tryin’ to see if anything gave off energy similar to the kind you are,” Fiddleford said. He inspected his raggedy nails idly. “Thought that it might be nice to look fer a natural cure, since I ain’t settin’ foot near that portal any time soon. But if ya don’t want to come with ‘cause yer sure we’re only doin’ this fer you…”

“No, I want to come!” Ford blurted out. Fiddleford shot Stan a sly grin. Stan raised an eyebrow silently in response.

_He really does know kids well. Another reason he’ll be good to have around._

Ford might have been eight, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Stan and Fiddleford were talking about him when they stood at the sink for an awkwardly long time. And he knew that Fiddleford’s reasoning behind the hike was thin at best. But as he tromped eagerly through the forest, hot on Stan’s heels, he was willing to let it slide.

Few things agitated him as much as being confined unwillingly. Yes, on his own, he’d been known to hole up “like a mouse”, as his mother used to say. Those instances, however, were of his own volition. He’d _wanted_ to hide away for hours on end.

_Stanley forcing me to stay cooped up with him in the house is almost as bad as being a child again. Being outside is wonderful_. The fresh, cold air being brought into his lungs was revitalizing. Every step landed on the snow-scattered ground with a satisfying crunch. Ford beamed at the sound.

“So, uh, how long do you guys usually go on research hikes or whatever?” Stan asked. Ford shrugged.

“For however long until we make a discovery.”

“Great,” Stan muttered. Fiddleford cleared his throat. “I mean, um…that’s…neat.” Ford looked up at Stan. Stan’s face was contorted in a wince at his own subpar phrasing. Ford let out a small giggle, amused. Stan looked back at him and smiled before returning his attention to the trees. “Ford, can you identify any of these trees?” Stan asked in a light tone.

“Some of them, yes. The deciduous trees, however, are more difficult to identify, as they’ve lost their leaves.”

“If you were a botanist, you’d know,” Stan said. Ford punched his leg playfully. Stan’s grin widened. A faint beeping sounded in the mostly still forest. Stan came to a stop. “What the hell is that? It sounds like a bomb.”

“It’s not,” Fiddleford said. Ford and Stan turned around to see Fiddleford take something out of his pocket. Fiddleford looked down at the object, bemused. It resembled a brick made of some kind of dark blue metal, with a few lightbulbs attached to one end. The largest lightbulb was flashing a green light.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stan said, crossing his arms. Fiddleford tapped the brick a few times. The lightbulb flickered but remained lit.

“This is the equipment I was referrin’ to,” Fiddleford replied. “It can detect energy abnormalities due to interdimensional interference.”

“And in English, that means?”

“It can locate pockets of energy leaking from other dimensions,” Ford said eagerly. Fiddleford nodded. “I knew that the oddities of Gravity Falls were due to interdimensional leakage, but I never brought a device into the forest to measure it.” Ford hit himself in the forehead. “Why did I never do that?”

“You, uh, you built that pretty fast,” Stan said. Fiddleford shook his head.

“I built this ‘fore Stanford and I…parted ways. All’s I had to do to adjust it fer this trip was to install an interference shield to keep it from pickin’ up on Stanford’s current energy signature.”

“Okay. What do we do with this, then?” Stan asked.

“Locate whatever is being registered, of course!” Ford said, exasperated. He grabbed the device out of Fiddleford’s hands and rushed off into the forest.

“Ford!” Stan shouted after him. Ford ignored him, instead watching intently as the green light grew brighter and the beeping louder. He could hear Stan and Fiddleford crashing through the undergrowth after him but didn’t care. After what felt like ages but was probably just a few seconds, he arrived in a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a single plant, green despite the surrounding snow and glowing faintly. Ford came to a stop.

“Stanford, ya can’t run off like that,” Fiddleford said as he and Stan caught up. “This forest ain’t safe! You know that better than anyone.” Fiddleford caught sight of the plant in the clearing. His eyes widened. “That’s an odd lil plant.”

“Yeah, it’s glowing and not dead, even though it’s winter,” Stan said shortly. He put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Ford, give Fiddleford back the thing, we’re gonna head back home.”

“Not without gathering that plant,” Ford said firmly. 

“Hell, no. I don’t trust it.”

“It should be fine,” Fiddleford said reluctantly.

“It’s glowing.”

“A lot of things glow,” Fiddleford said. “As plants in Gravity Falls go, this one seems harmless.” Ignoring the bickering, Ford handed the device to Fiddleford, shook Stan’s hand off his shoulder, and strode forward determinedly.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford sighed. Stan also let out a long sigh.

“Fine, you can get the plant, then we’re heading back.” As Ford approached the odd plant, he could faintly hear Stan and Fiddleford talking. “So what’s the deal with this plant?”

“If I can observe something that has a lot of dimensional energy in it, particularly interdimensional energy, I’ll learn more ‘bout how it affects living things and can try to reverse-engineer a cure.”

“How?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” Fiddleford said quietly. Ford carefully plucked the plant from the snowy ground. “Stanford?”

“It smells amazing,” Ford whispered.

“Sometimes plants do that,” Stan said. “C’mon, we gotta go back.” Ford plucked a single leaf from the plant. He brought the leaf to his nose and inhaled deeply.

“It smells like cinnamon donuts,” Ford whispered. Crunching sounded behind him. Stan crouched by his side.

“That’s nice, but we’re gonna go now,” Stan said firmly. Ford looked up at Stan. “What?”

“It smells exactly like the donuts we used to have on snow days,” Ford said, his voice still soft. “When Mom would take us to the kosher bakery down the block and we had our pick of the first batch they made.” Stan’s eyes softened.

“I remember that. Okay, lemme smell.” Ford held out the leaf. Stan took a cautious whiff, then recoiled. “Ugh, that doesn’t smell good _at all_. Your nose must be screwed up from the cold or somethin’.” Ford shook his head. Holding this plant, he felt calm, but at the same time, a slight fizzing sensation spread across his skin. He looked down at the leaf again and brought it up to his mouth, unsure of why he was doing it, just knowing that it was the right thing to do. Stan’s expression broke into panic. “Ford, don’t eat that!”

“It smells good,” Ford said. Stan attempted to take the leaf from him, but before he could, Ford popped it into his mouth. It tasted just as good as it smelled. Ford was transported back to the first time his mother had taken him and his brothers to the bakery, when he was too small to have formed any coherent memories. He only remembered warmth, safety, and the sweet taste of cinnamon. Ford swallowed.

“Stanford, you little shit, you don’t just eat random plants you find in the woods!” Stan scolded, shaking him. “Especially if they’re glowing!” Ford merely smiled at Stan, feeling content for the first time in weeks.

There was a flash of light. The fizzing sensation now permeated through his body. The last thing he heard before darkness overtook him was more crunching of the snow, a sucked in gasp, and a southern voice.

“Oh, Lord above, we’re in big trouble now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this went up a couple days late; it was Thanksgiving for us Americans, and I was spending time with family and then traveling, so I didn't get a chance to post it. Hopefully this chapter begins to answer some of the questions you might have about the overarching plot.
> 
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, comment below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	4. Squib Load

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Squib load** (noun): a firearms malfunction in which a fired projectile does not have enough force behind it to exit the barrel, and thus becomes stuck

Stan paced anxiously by the side of Ford’s bed, glancing at Ford every now and then. Ford was sleeping peacefully, his chubby, cherubic face particularly angelic. Stan scowled.

_He has no right to look so relaxed when he did this to himself. Why the hell did he eat that plant? He knows better than that! Hell, _I_ know better than that, and I’m a dumbass._

“Yer bound to wear a hole in the floor like that,” a voice said. Stan spun around. Fiddleford had returned from his house. He handed the plastic bag he was holding to Stan. “That oughta fit him. Yer lucky that I’m a bit of a hoarder. Children’s clothes are expensive.”

“I know,” Stan mumbled, thinking back to some of the price tags he’d seen at the mall, what felt like years ago. “Why didn’t his clothes shrink with him this time?”

“The cause was dif’rent,” Fiddleford said. Stan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I got that, Fiddlenerd. I’m complaining, not actually asking a question.” Stan set the bag down next to the bed. “It looks like he’s done shrinking, at least.” Stan looked at Ford again. “No clue how old he is now.” Fiddleford crossed over to the bed and sat on the edge. He stroked Ford’s hair out of his face.

“I can’t give ya an exact age, but he looks to be ‘bout three. Maybe a young four or an old two. Depends on whether he was larger or smaller than average as a child.” Fiddleford looked at Stan expectantly. Stan shrugged. “Well, the range of old two to young four ain’t exactly an easy one. If ya thought he was difficult ‘fore, he’s goin’ to be extra difficult now.”

“Why did that plant do this to him?” Stan asked. Fiddleford let out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know, and I won’t until I get a chance to observe it more closely. Unfortunately, Stanford was the one who knew biology. Combine the fact I ain’t that knowledgeable in the first place with the current state of my mind and ya wind up with someone tryin’ to shoot with both eyes closed.”

“You figured out what was going on with the energy whatever,” Stan protested. Fiddleford shook his head.

“Stanford collected most of that data hisself. And it was regardin’ a machine’s impact. This time, it’s a plant’s impact. My knowledge on plants is strictly from growin’ up on a farm. That plant wasn’t alfalfa or an apple tree.” Ford made a small noise and rolled over. Fiddleford smiled faintly. “These are terrible conditions, to be sure, but I’m a sucker fer a cute face.” Stan sat on the edge of the bed as well, watching Fiddleford watch Ford.

There was no doubt that Fiddleford was a loving, caring father. He radiated an aura of gentleness while he looked at Ford. Stan felt an ugly jealousy unfurling in his chest, thinking of his own childhood. Dreading the sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, being ignored until he succeeded or, more often, screwed up.

_Why is this hick who looks like there’s a chicken nesting in his hair a better dad than I got?_ Fiddleford looked up. He furrowed his brow thoughtfully.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, just-” Stan looked away and tried to fight back his sudden irritation. “Just thinking about when we were this small before.”

“Ah.” The sound was small, but full of understanding. Stan looked back at Fiddleford. “I ain’t privy to the details, but Stanford told me a few things ‘bout his – your – parents.” Fiddleford gazed down at Ford. “I forget sometimes that not everyone had a ma and pa that took care of ‘em as well as mine did. When ya grow up with somethin’, ya tend to not realize that there are folks who don’t have that thing.” The jealousy that had arisen out of nowhere began to settle into a low simmer.

_Right. The reason why he’s a good dad and Pops wasn’t is because this guy actually cares about other people. And he had a good dad, so he had someone he could copy. _ It was like a stone had been tossed into Stan’s stomach. _It’s for the best I haven’t had kids yet. Maybe I shouldn’t ever. It’s not like I had someone who could show me how to do it right._

“What’s in the past is in the past,” Fiddleford said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Stan snorted.

“Sounds like something someone who had a good past would say.”

“Or it’s somethin’ someone would say if they’re beginnin’ to learn the hard way that they need to find a healthy way to move past negative events,” Fiddleford said sharply. Stan raised an eyebrow.

_I touched a nerve, didn’t I?_ The urge to keep pushing was strong, especially since Fiddleford had been strangely specific. Stan fought back that urge. _Don’t. If you push him, he might leave. And if he leaves, you’re stuck with three-year-old Ford and no idea how to take care of him, let alone cure him. _Stan frowned, a stray phrase that Fiddleford had mentioned earlier suddenly catching his attention.

“What did you mean by your ‘current state of mind’?” Stan asked. Fiddleford stilled. “You’ve mentioned it before. That your brain isn’t what it used to be.”

“That’s private, personal business,” Fiddleford said tightly.

“Not really, if it’s gonna make curing Ford more difficult.” Stan had touched another nerve. Fiddleford’s jaw clenched.

“Then it serves him right, ‘cause his actions ‘re what led me to it,” Fiddleford growled.

“So it has to do with whatever happened between you and Ford,” Stan said. Fiddleford nodded reluctantly. “What was it? Bad breakup?” Stan joked. Fiddleford completely froze, every muscle tensed. Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth like a bee trapped inside a room. Stan could practically hear the gears frantically turning in Fiddleford’s head. Finally, Fiddleford relaxed.

“No.”

“…That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say? ‘No’?”

“What more do ya want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me what happened with you and Ford. And why it might make curing him more difficult. You might have a beef with him and I do too, but he’s still my brother, okay? I want him to get back to normal!” Stan began to pick up steam as he spoke, physically shaking by the time he bit off his last word.

“Fine.” Fiddleford carefully pulled Ford’s blanket higher, covering Ford’s shoulders. “I’ll tell ya.” His voice was soft but firm. He looked up at Stan, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “But only if ya tell me in turn ‘bout yer own issues with him.”

“Hell, no,” Stan said immediately. “That’s my business.”

“It’s only fair fer you to share with me, if I have to share with you.”

“Your shit is relevant to the situation! Mine isn’t!”

“So you don’t think that there’s even a slight chance Ford might use whatever bad blood is between the two of ya as a weapon?” Fiddleford shot back. “He’s a toddler. Toddler’s aren’t exactly known fer their self-control, and honestly, Ford wasn’t particularly good at that as an adult! He’ll get frustrated at some point and use it against ya, to get ya to back down or hurt yer feelin’s ‘cause he’s upset he can’t stay up past eight! It might not be relevant in the same way, but that don’t mean it ain’t!”

“You goddamn _fucking_-” Stan started. Ford let out a loud groan and began to move. Stan and Fiddleford froze. Stan belatedly realized that his voice had been getting louder, as had Fiddleford’s. Fiddleford seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Once Ford stilled again, Fiddleford got up.

“Maybe we should have this conversation in the living room,” Fiddleford said quietly. “A toddler is one of the worst people to wake up from a nap. A toddler who will wake up and know he’s not supposed to be one? Bound to be even worse.”

Stan entered the kitchen. Fiddleford looked up from the papers scattered across the kitchen table. Stan held up the bottles he had found.

“Time to get liquored up!” he said cheerfully. Fiddleford raised his eyebrows.

“You can. I think I’ll avoid imbibin’ fer a while.” He pointed at a cup sitting next to him, likely leaving water rings over everything. “I’m fine with my water fer now.” He looked back down at the papers, frowned, and picked one up. “I don’t need to mess up my mind with alcohol. It’s a bit like a hamster in a wheel as it is.”

“Suit yourself.” Stan opened a pantry and grabbed a glass tumbler, then poured amber liquid into it from one of the bottles. He picked up the glass and sniffed the liquid experimentally. “Hmm. Smells like some fine whisky. Ford’s got good taste.” Stan joined Fiddleford at the table. Fiddleford set down his piece of paper.

“So. Tell me about yer history with Stanford,” Fiddleford said, nonchalant.

“One sec.” Stan gulped down half of his glass of whisky. “All right. Ford and I were best friends when we were kids. Mom would call us ‘joined at the hip’. We…” Stan trailed off.

_You don’t need to spill the whole thing. He doesn’t need to hear it_. Stan cleared his throat.

“But when we were in high school, Ford made this science fair experiment. All of a sudden, colleges were looking at him like he was gonna solve world hunger or cure cancer or whatever. He decided that he wanted to go to one of ‘em. I was pretty pissed, ‘cause we always planned on doing stuff together when we were finally old enough to leave New Jersey. And I went to go yell at his experiment about it.” He managed a weak laugh. “Like that was gonna help.”

“Better ‘n yellin’ at Stanford,” Fiddleford said, his tone carefully neutral.

“Not really. I bumped a thing, something fell, and the damn machine broke. I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t.” The memory filled him with a hot, pulsing shame. “That screw-up screwed up his shot at going to a fancy school out west,” Stan finished. Fiddleford nodded.

“I knew he was bitter ‘bout not gettin’ to go to West Coast Tech, but I never knew why he didn’t go there.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “He complained about it _all the time_ at Backupsmore.”

“He- wait, you went to college together?”

“We were roommates.”

_Oh my god, they were roommates._

“Even if he got into West Coast Tech, I doubt he’d have enjoyed it. That school might be years ahead of the general population in terms of technology and science, but it’s way behind in…how should I say it? Social progress.”

“Sounds like you have experience with them.”

“A bit.” Fiddleford took a drink of water, his eyes stormy. “I got in. West Coast Tech accepted me to their engineerin’ program. But then they found out somethin’ personal about me. Don’t know how. Maybe some spiteful feller from my high school told ‘em. But it don’t matter. Once they found out, they decided they didn’t want to be associated with my ‘lifestyle’.” Fiddleford etched quotation marks in the air, a distinctly sour look on his face.

“They couldn’t rescind my acceptance over it,” Fiddleford continued. “I mean, they could’ve. But my ma was a lawyer ‘fore she married my pa, which they knew, ‘cause I mentioned it in my cover letter. So they knew I’d make a stink over it. Them backin’ out on their decision to accept me over a rumor.” Fiddleford swallowed. “A rumor that was true, but I didn’t confirm it to ‘em. I ain’t always wise, but I ain’t dumb, neither.

“They didn’t want to deal with the bad press, so they quietly changed the rules fer financial aid. When I first got in, I qualified fer all sorts of grants and scholarships. Practic’ly a full ride. But after they changed the rules, I didn’t qualify no more. And without financial aid, I couldn’t go.” Fiddleford downed the rest of his glass. “They effectively shot me in the legs. Didn’t kill me, but wounded me enough that I couldn’t go on.” Fiddleford’s voice broke. “Absolute _horseshit_, the lot of it.”

“I’d agree with that,” Stan said solemnly. Fiddleford sighed.

“Anyways, I doubt Stanford would’ve thrived in an environment like that.” Fiddleford shook his head. “Never mind. Was that the end of yer story?”

“…Basically,” Stan said. Fiddleford took off his small reading glasses and busily rubbed at them with his sleeve. “I don’t know how that’s gonna help you clean those. Your shirt’s even dirtier.”

“Hmph.” Fiddleford set his glasses down on the table. He locked eyes with Stan. Without a thin layer of smeared glass covering them, his eyes were a bright shade of blue, something that took Stan by surprise. He wasn’t completely sure why it startled him, but nonetheless, it did. “What happened when Stanford’s machine was broken?”

“Ford got pissed.”

“And yer father?”

“Even more pissed.”

“What did he do?” Fiddleford’s questions weren’t purposeless. Each one was sharp, short, and thought-out. A chill ran down Stan’s spine. Fiddleford knew there was something Stan wasn’t saying. Something Fiddleford was determined to find out.

“Why do you care what my dad did?” Stan snapped. “It doesn’t have anything to do with- with anything! Back off!” Fiddleford’s mouth straightened into one flat line. After a moment, he leaned back.

“I mentioned before that Stanford told me a bit ‘bout yer parents. Not a lot, but enough to know that yer father would not have reacted well to this.” Stan was silent. “I don’t consider myself a busybody, but-”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of pretending to be one, then.”

“Am I wrong?” Fiddleford pried. Stan scowled. “Am I wrong in that somethin’ particularly awful went down that day?”

“I don’t need to answer any more of your questions!” Stan thundered. “I said I’d tell you why Ford and I weren’t on good terms. I did, so I’m not gonna tell you anything else.” Fiddleford held up his hands placatingly.

“All right. I’ll drop it. Fer now.” Fiddleford looked down at the spreading water ring from his glass. “I s’ppose it’s my turn to share my bad blood with Stanford.”

“Damn straight.” Stan leaned back and took a swig of his whisky. “Talk, Fiddledork.”

“That’s essentially what happened,” Fiddleford said. His mouth was dry from talking for so long. “Both to make things…tense between Stanford and myself, and to leave me in my current state.” Fiddleford’s shoulders drooped. “I’ve felt scatter-brained before, but nothin’ like this.”

“Huh. I get it now,” Stan said thoughtfully. Fiddleford was too weary from the weight of his decisions to respond energetically. He picked up his glass of water.

“Get what?” he asked.

“Why you and Ford used to get along so well. You’re both dumbass geniuses.” That startled Fiddleford out of his tiredness. He slammed his glass down on the table and glared at Stan.

“_Excuse_ me?”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m a dumbass, too,” Stan said airily. He ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “But I’m not the kinda dumbass who makes sci-fi villain weapons, I’m the kinda dumbass who licks a metal pole in winter.” Stan shook his head. “How the hell did you think it was a good idea to make something that would erase memories? That’s like, the plotline of half of Ford’s favorite books.”

“Being able to erase traumatic events would revolutionize treatment! Think of all those folks with PTSD-”

“Look. I’ve been through plenty of traumatic shit I’d rather forget,” Stan said. His voice was level but firm. “There are things that haunt me. But forgetting ‘em would mean I- well, if I don’t have my memories, I’m not me anymore. And isn’t that the same problem you’ve got? You used that thing on yourself and started forgetting and now you’re not the same guy that got into West Coast Tech.”

“To be fair, there have been side effects from prolonged use,” Fiddleford said. “If I had worked out the tweaks more before beginning to use it-”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Stan finished. “But maybe you would. I stand by what I said. Everyone’s got things they wish hadn’t happened, or that they could forget happened. Erasing them, though, changes who we are.” Stan was silent for a moment. He looked out the window, his eyes mournful. “I don’t always like who I am. That doesn’t mean I’ll try to become someone else. I don’t know _how_ to be someone else. I barely know how to be _me_. Y’know?” A heavy silence filled the room.

“Yer quite the philosopher,” Fiddleford said finally. Stan shrugged.

“I think a lot. Not enough to be like you or Ford, but my head isn’t _completely_ empty.” He cracked a small grin. Fiddleford managed a weak smile in return. Quiet footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Stan and Fiddleford looked over. “You found the clothes,” Stan said to Ford. Ford looked down at himself. He was wearing bright red shorts and a white T-shirt that Fiddleford remembered having a lizard on the front. The lizard wasn’t visible at the moment, though. “Your shirt is inside-out,” Stan said helpfully. Ford scowled.

“I’m aware. My coordination is currently lacking.”

“Tots aren’t really known fer their gracefulness,” Fiddleford said, in what he hoped was an empathetic tone. Ford rubbed his eyes.

“‘Tots’? I take it I’m a toddler, then?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Looks like,” Stan said. He seemed to be taking the tactic opposite to Fiddleford’s. Rather than keep Ford calm by commiserating, he appeared to be downplaying the seriousness of the situation. His voice was light and cheerful, like the latest wrinkle to occur could be smoothed out easily. Fiddleford nodded slightly, appreciative.

_Stan might try to deny it, but he has very good instincts. Children pick up on the emotions of adults and will mirror them._

“What brought about this development?” Ford asked. Stan got up from his chair and crouched down in front of Ford.

“You ate a weird plant in the woods. Lift your arms.”

“Why?”

“Why did you eat the plant or why should you lift your arms?” Stan asked. “I don’t know the answer to the first one, but the answer to the second one is so that I can fix your shirt. C’mon. Lift ‘em up.” Ford did as he was told. Stan slid off Ford’s shirt, turned it outside-in, and put it back on Ford. Through the process, he was gentle and careful.

“Do you not remember the plant?” Fiddleford asked Ford. Ford rubbed his chin, an action directly contradicting his current youthful appearance.

“No. Do you happen to have it? Seeing it might jolt my memory.”

“It’s in the lab,” Stan answered. Ford nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll need to run some tests on myself anyways. Two birds with one stone.”

“Oh, hell no,” Stan said firmly. Ford’s eyes widened, taking Fiddleford aback. He’d expected a scowl or frown. Ford seemed less angry than startled.

“What? Why?” Ford whined. Stan stood up.

“You’re three.”

“So?”

“Your lab isn’t safe! There’s all sortsa weird, dangerous stuff in there.”

“Stanley!”

“Calm down, gents,” Fiddleford said. “Stanley, Stanford’s right in that more tests need to be run on him. Stanford, Stanley’s right that it ain’t really safe fer ya to be in the lab. Yer too lil to do any experimentation anyways.”

“I beg to differ,” Ford muttered, crossing his arms and looking away. He let out a small squeak as Stan picked him up. “Hey!”

“Fiddlesticks, think you can run the tests on him?”

“I can do my best,” Fiddleford said hesitantly.

“Your best is gonna be better than mine,” Stan said. “Let’s go get those tests done. Then…I dunno, maybe we put Ford down for a nap.”

“No!” Ford protested. He squirmed in Stan’s arms. “Put me down!”

“I thought you didn’t wanna be put down for a nap,” Stan said snarkily. Ford stopped squirming to glare at him.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it! I can walk downstairs myself!”

“I’m not gonna risk it. Those stairs are steep. I don’t want you to trip and break your nose.” Fiddleford watched the bickering with some amusement. It wasn’t quite the same as an argument between siblings, which Fiddleford had plenty of experience with. But it also wasn’t quite the same as an argument between a parent and child, which Fiddleford also knew well.

_Whichever fightin’ it’s most like, it’s kind of cute. Though that might have somethin’ to do with the people who are arguin’_. Fiddleford flushed slightly. _Now what did I mean by that?_

“Fine, _dad_,” Ford grumbled, giving in. Stan was facing away from him, but Fiddleford could still see him tense slightly. “You can carry me down the stairs. But I refuse to be carried all the way to the lab. I can walk to the stairs.”

“Sure,” Stan said quietly. He set Ford down. Ford immediately set off, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Fiddleford got up and walked over to Stan. He placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Stan startled.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Fiddleford asked softly. Stan looked away. “…All right, I won’t push it. But ya seemed mighty tense just now.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Stan muttered. “It’s- Ford’s never called me ‘dad’ before. Even jokingly.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “But he was joking, so yeah, it’s- it’s probably nothing. I’m probably just a bit on edge about all of this.”

“It’s understandable fer ya to be on edge.” Without thinking, Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s shoulder reassuringly. Stan eyed him.

“You’re a bit touchy, aren’t you?”

“My apologies,” Fiddleford mumbled. He removed his hand. “I’ll grab what I need to. You bring Stanford down to the lab.”

By the time Fiddleford arrived in the lab, Stan had found an old blanket and covered the large window through which the portal could be seen. It was a challenging task, in that he had to do it one-handed, with Ford constantly trying to break free of his hold. Now, Ford ambled around the lab, standing on his tiptoes to try to see over the edges of counters and mumbling to himself. Stan couldn’t quite make out all of Ford’s words, but he recognized a few as frustrated swears. Ford’s cussing was incredibly endearing as he puttered around in the distinctive toddling gait of a very young child.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Fiddleford said, finally arriving in the lab, carrying a cardboard box. He looked around. “Why haven’t ya turned the lights on?”

“There’s a light switch?” Stan asked. Fiddleford reached a finger out and flipped a switch that Stan had seen before but assumed turned on some sort of death ray. The lab was filled with light. Fiddleford glanced at the window tensely. Stan was relieved to see his face relax.

“I see you’ve hidden that bad decision.”

“Yeah.” Stan shrugged, passing off the action as inconsequential to him. “It hasn’t done anything good so far, so I figured, why stare at it?”

“Very sound logic,” Fiddleford said. He flashed an appreciative look in Stan’s direction. “Stanford, c’mere. Let’s get you all tested. Sooner we’re done with that, the sooner you can have lunch and take a nap.”

“I don’t need a nap,” Ford protested, but he toddled over to Fiddleford obediently. Fiddleford set the box on the ground, got down on his knees, and pulled a device that looked like a grocery store scanner out of the box. “By the way, how long was I unconscious?” Ford asked. Fiddleford moved the scanner up and down Ford’s body.

“A coupla hours,” Stan answered. “Not too long.” He glanced at his watch. “We went on a hike around nine, you passed out around ten, it’s noon-ish now.” Ford’s stomach rumbled. “Fiddleford was right about lunch. We need to get some food in you. Any requests?”

“I’d think somethin’ not too strong,” Fiddleford said. He looked at the screen of the scanner, his face grim. “Toddlers should be restricted to blander food. Maybe somethin’ like chicken nuggets or mac ‘n cheese. Do either of those sound good to ya, Stanford?”

“Either one should be fine.” Ford craned his neck around to try to look at the scanner’s screen as well, but Fiddleford put the scanner back in the box. “What were the results of that?”

“Odd.”

“Odd how?” Ford pressed.

“Yer no longer givin’ off the energy of a dif’rent dimension. Yer cells seemed to have realigned with this one.”

“That’s good, right?” Stan asked. Ford rolled his eyes.

“Duh, _dad_,” he scoffed. Stan’s chest tightened. Fiddleford looked up at him. Their eyes met. Fiddleford nodded slightly.

_He thinks it’s weird, too. For weeks, Ford never called me ‘dad’, even though I acted like one. But since he turned into a toddler, he’s called me that twice. Jokingly, yeah, but what if he starts saying it seriously?_

“On the surface, yes, it’s good,” Fiddleford said carefully. He removed another item from the box. Stan squinted. It looked like a pair of tweezers. “I’ll see ‘bout testin’ some of yer DNA.”

“You don’t have much experience with that,” Ford said.

“I’ve seen you do it plenty of times. I think I can figure it out. And if I can’t, I can always ask ya.” Fiddleford plucked a strand of hair from Ford, who let out a small yelp. “Sorry ‘bout that. It’s not a pleasant feelin’, but I figure it’s better ‘n blood samples.” Ford paled.

“Yes. I prefer this over taking blood samples. Needles…” Ford trailed off. He shivered violently. Fiddleford’s mouth pursed in concern, but Ford’s reaction didn’t surprise Stan. He remembered well his brother’s childhood fear of all things medical. As a medical anomaly, he was in and out of doctors’ offices near constantly, and not just to try to fix something. Filbrick used to brag about the number of studies they’d been paid to have Ford participate in, back when Ford was too young to protest being treated like a lab rat.

“Needles suck,” Stan said, trying to take some of the focus off Ford.

“No disagreements here,” Fiddleford said, feigning cheer. He took out a third device from the box. This one looked like a cross between a satellite dish and ray guns on the shows Ford used to watch. Like with the scanner, there was a screen on it directly facing Fiddleford. “This is the last test I’ll be runnin’ fer now.”

“Really? There are so many others!” Ford said. “You haven’t even taken my vitals, for one.”

“Well…” Fiddleford set down the satellite dish-ray gun. He pressed the back of his hand against Ford’s forehead. “You feel fine temperature-wise. Hold out yer wrist.” Fiddleford silently took Ford’s pulse. “Heart rate is also fine.” Fiddleford placed his hands on his knees. “There ‘re plenty of other vital signs, but those two are the ones I’d be most concerned ‘bout. I can listen to yer breathin’ ‘n whatnot later, but ya seem fairly healthy to me.” Ford’s stomach rumbled again. Fiddleford managed a small smile. “And ya sound pretty hungry, so goin’ through this as fast as possible to make sure ya get to eat soon is a good idea. Let me get a quick readin’ on ya and then Stan can take ya upstairs fer some lunch.” Fiddleford held up the satellite dish-ray gun again. He pulled the trigger. There was a flash of light.

“Well?” Ford prompted impatiently. Fiddleford nodded slowly, staring at the gun’s screen.

“Yer givin’ off a bit of magical radiation.”

“Wait, Ford’s magic now?” Stan asked. Fiddleford tilted his head one way, then the other.

“Yes and no. I’ll need some time to properly interpret these results, but just goin’ off what I see here, it looks like Ford has a slight magical aura. Prob’ly from eatin’ that plant in the woods.” Fiddleford playfully poked Ford’s nose. Ford wrinkled his nose in response, eliciting a small smile from Fiddleford. “Go on upstairs and have yourself some food, okay? Once yer done with lunch and yer nap after, I can go over these results with ya if ya still want to.”

“Okay.” Ford looked over at Stan hopefully. “Mac ‘n cheese?” Stan nodded.

“You got it.” Stan strode over to Ford and picked him up. To his surprise, instead of attempting to wriggle free, Ford settled against his chest. He began to head upstairs. “And this time, I won’t even make you eat a vegetable with it.” Ford beamed up at him.

“Thanks, dad.” A lump appeared in Stan’s throat. He choked it down and forced a smile.

“No problem, Sixer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post this. Even though I have everything written already, it takes me a bit of time to post the chapters, especially since I sometimes edit a bit while I'm getting a chapter ready to be posted. I also got sick this week, which kept me from doing much other than drinking fluids, taking Tylenol, and groaning for a couple days. But here's the second-to-last chapter! And as for that ending? Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. ;)
> 
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	5. Buffer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Buffer** (noun): a component that reduces the velocity of recoiling parts

Stan continued to watch Ford sleep. He could feel tears beginning to prick the corners of his eyes. They’d had to put a nightlight in the room yesterday; Ford was too afraid to fall asleep alone without it. Luckily, Fiddleford knew where Ford had stored a large, glowing crystal, which even had the added effect of casting a “soothing aura”.

_Whatever the hell that means_. Stan looked over at the crystal in question, perched on the corner of Ford’s desk, filling the room with a faint blue glow. _Sure doesn’t seem to soothe me_. The door opened with a faint creak. Fiddleford poked his head in.

“Is he asleep?” Fiddleford whispered. Stan nodded and gestured for him to come in. Fiddleford quietly walked over to Ford’s bed. “Did he go down all right?”

“Better than last night. Or the night before.” Stan looked down at Ford again. “It feels like Ford’s been stuck as a toddler for months.” He rubbed his face. “It’s only been three days. It’s only been three days!”

“I know,” Fiddleford said calmly. He sat next to Stan. “When ya have a small child, it often seems like time moves slower than it does.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a small child! Or at least, I’m not supposed to! Not yet.” Stan could feel tears welling up again. “Ever since I was a teenager, I wanted to be a dad. But not- not this way.” Stan’s voice broke. “Not this way.”

“Hey.” Fiddleford rested a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Stan typically shrunk away from touches, but right now he sunk into the comfort. He’d gotten to know Fiddleford over the last few days. The southern man was annoyingly good at breaking down his barriers. But more importantly, Stan could feel himself coming apart at the seams. Fiddleford’s calming, grounded energy was the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. “This’ll get resolved.” A troubled look passed over Fiddleford’s face. “Somehow. And when it does, well, you’ll get a chance to be a dad the right way.” Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s shoulder reassuringly. Stan let out a sigh.

“I dunno. I don’t know if I should be a dad. It’s not like I had anyone to show me how to do it right,” he muttered. He froze, realizing that he had accidentally said aloud what he was thinking.

_Damn McGucket_. _Making me feel comfortable around him and shit_. He expected Fiddleford to tsk and talk him down. To his surprise, Fiddleford let out a peal of laughter. Stan stared at him, not just shocked by Fiddleford’s reaction but also by the realization that he had never heard Fiddleford laugh before. Wryly chuckle, yes. But not full-throated laughter. _Not the prettiest laugh I’ve ever heard_. It was higher pitched than Stan would have expected and had a slightly grating tone. _Doesn’t mean it’s not nice, though_. Fiddleford’s merriment came through, worming its way into Stan’s sour mood, beginning to lift it like wind whisking away fog.

“Now, that’s hilarious.”

“…What?” Stan asked.

“The idea that ya wouldn’t be a good father. How can ya actually believe that? Ya just spent the last month or so provin’ ya have what it takes.”

“Yeah. With a kid that’s actually an adult,” Stan snorted. Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

“Honestly? Stanford at eight was _way_ worse than Tate was at that age. Sure, it ain’t exactly the same sit’ation, and you’ve only handled an eight-year-old and a three-year-old, but there’s no chance you’d screw it up the way yer worried about it.” Stan opened his mouth, about to make some wisecrack about how he could find a way to screw up anything. Upon seeing Fiddleford’s sincere expression, though, he thought better of it and closed his mouth. Fiddleford smiled slightly. Stan’s heart fluttered. He cleared his throat roughly.

“So, how are things going with finding a cure?” Stan asked. Fiddleford’s smile vanished. “Oh.”

“I- I can’t make heads nor tails of any of this stuff,” Fiddleford said softly. He gripped the edge of the bed. “I’m startin’ to think it was a fluke, everything I did to figure out why Stanford got turned young. I can’t handle this on my own, I don’t think.” Fiddleford took a shuddering breath. “I keep runnin’ into wall after wall and-”

“Hey, you’re a genius,” Stan said, putting an arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders. “You can handle it. I-” He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “Like you said, I’ve been able to take care of Ford so far. I can keep on doing that until-” Stan’s voice gave out.

“I can tell it’s startin’ to wear on ya. Stanford callin’ ya his father.”

“I mean, yeah. Can you blame me?” Stan laughed, but the sound had no humor in it. “He’s my twin brother and he thinks I’m his dad. It’s not exactly ideal, Fiddleford.”

“I know, but-” Fiddleford started. A low glow began to fill the room. Stan looked around the room, trying to figure out what was giving off light. His eyes landed on Ford.

“Shit!” Stan pulled the blanket off Ford, revealing that his entire, minute body was emitting a faint, yellow glow. “Fiddleford, what’s-”

“I don’t know Stanley, I-” The glow became brighter and brighter, almost burning Stan’s eyes, strong enough that he had to look away. As suddenly as the light had appeared, it vanished. Stan blinked away the afterimages and looked back at Ford.

“…Holy hell,” Stan breathed. Ford was still much younger than he should be, but he was also older than he had been a second ago. The now very tight pajamas were evidence of that. Stan looked over at Fiddleford, who was also staring at Ford in shock. “Is he…?”

“I don’t know.” Fiddleford ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t understand anything that’s happening.”

“Think we should wake him up?”

“Uh, no.” Fiddleford gently blocked Stan from reaching out to shake Ford. “I don’t understand anything that’s happening, but I do know that wakin’ a child as young as he is will only result in everyone cryin’. Let’s go wait in the kitchen until he wakes up on his own.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. I could use a drink,” Stan said decidedly. Fiddleford nodded.

“I think I could, too.”

It felt like waking from a very deep sleep. Ford fought his way out of the solemn darkness and blankets, only to land on the floor. He sat up, taking in his surroundings.

_To be fair, I did just wake from a very deep sleep._ Ford got to his feet. _Though I feel as though I’ve woken from more than just slumber._ He looked down at himself, dreading what he would see. His mouth dropped open. _I’ve grown. Either Fiddleford found a cure or a significant amount of time has passed. _ Ford swallowed. _Time that I don’t remember_. He took a breath. _Calm down, Stanford. Find Stanley or Fiddleford. They can explain what has happened._

Thankfully, the door was ajar, saving Ford the indignity of having to struggle to reach the handle properly. He pushed the door open the rest of the way. Faint voices could be heard coming from somewhere else in the house, along with the distinctive twang and jangle of Fiddleford’s favorite country music station. Ford headed in the direction of the sounds. As he approached, he could distinguish individual words.

“Ya don’t strike me as the kind of feller who’d like John Denver,” Fiddleford’s voice said.

“Oh, is that the guy’s name?” Stan’s voice responded idly.

“Yes.”

“You’re right. It’s not my kinda music.”

“Then how do ya know it?” Fiddleford asked. Ford arrived in the entryway of the kitchen. From where he stood, he could now see that Stan and Fiddleford were doing dishes, Stan scrubbing them clean and handing them off to Fiddleford, who dried and put them away.

“It plays on country stations nonstop, genius.” Stan handed a washed plate to Fiddleford. “And when you’re driving through Midwestern Nowhere Hell, the only radio stations around play country 24/7.”

“Still, I’m surprised ya bothered to learn the words.”

“It’s catchy. Sue me,” Stan said dismissively, wiping his hands dry on the seat of his pants. “I wonder if Ford’s up yet. Think we should check on him?”

“That’s prob’ly the appropriate course of action,” Fiddleford replied. Ford cleared his throat. Stan and Fiddleford looked over. “Stanford, yer up!” Fiddleford said in surprise. He seemed relieved, while Stan’s expression was carefully guarded.

“How are you feeling?” Stan asked cautiously. Ford shrugged.

“All right, I suppose. I don’t feel particularly ill or weak.” Naked relief broke across Stan’s face. “Why?”

“Just wondering.” Stan looked at Fiddleford meaningfully. Fiddleford shrugged. “So, uh, quick question. What’s the last thing you remember and when did it happen?”

“Um.” Ford had to think for a second. “Fiddleford examining me in the lab on Thursday. Why?”

“You were right,” Stan said in a low voice to Fiddleford.

“Right about what?” Ford asked.

“That ya wouldn’t remember the last few days,” Fiddleford said. He put away the last clean and dried dish. “Ya seemed to be in some sort of fugue state, and folks don’t usually remember things from while they were in one of those.”

“Last few days?” Ford squeaked. Stan and Fiddleford nodded.

“It’s Monday,” Stan said. Ford’s jaw dropped open. “Honestly, I think it’s for the best you don’t remember everything that happened since Thursday.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

“Sure, _now_ yer all fer forgettin’ things,” he said to Stan. Despite the sharpness of his voice, the words lacked any venom. Instead, the comment bore the cadence of a joke. Ford raised his eyebrows in surprise.

_Did Fiddleford just joke about the memory erasing gun with Stan? Something has happened between the two of them._

“I’d ask what happened during those days that I can’t remember,” Ford said, “but I’ll trust your judgement that I wouldn’t like to know.”

“Maybe when you’re back to your old nerdy self,” Stan said. Ford shrugged.

“Maybe. When will that be, by the way? Fiddleford, I assume you discovered a cure?”

“Uh, no.”

“Pardon?”

“I couldn’t come up with one.” Fiddleford looked down at the counter, his jaw set in agitation. “No matter how I approached the issue, it was like bangin’ my head into a wall. But less fun.”

“Then why am I older?” Ford asked.

“No clue,” Stan said cheerfully. “You started glowing earlier, while you were asleep, and when you stopped glowing, you were older. Magic, amiright?”

“I…” Ford looked down at himself again. “I think I want to run some tests.”

“Absolutely,” Fiddleford said. “With yer help, we should be able to get some good results.”

“I also think I could use some new clothes,” Ford added.

“I’m on it,” Stan said, already exiting the kitchen. Fiddleford shook his head.

“If that boy steals ‘em, I swear…” he mumbled. Ford frowned thoughtfully at Fiddleford. Fiddleford noticed his expression. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…observing.”

“Observing what?” Fiddleford asked. Ford’s frown deepened.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

On Tuesday, Fiddleford was in the lab, running test after test on Ford, who was more than happy to help Fiddleford when his memory failed him. Fiddleford felt like his mind was beginning to settle, but he didn’t want to jinx it, so he kept that hope to himself. He frowned at the latest printout of data.

“This is interestin’,” he remarked softly.

“What?” Ford asked, standing on his tiptoes to see over the table. He seemed to have settled back into a primarily adult mindset, but with a youthful energy that either drained or invigorated Fiddleford. Right now, it was doing the former. Fiddleford handed the printout to Ford with a soft, tired sigh. Ford’s brow wrinkled.

“Hmm. I’m still giving off magical energy.”

“Yep. Which I think is a good thing, since yer not to yer proper age yet. And we might not know exactly what happened with that plant, but fer sure it was what brought ya up to yer current age.”

“Yes,” Ford mumbled, distracted. He looked up at Fiddleford. “Could I see the results of the latest test on the plant?” Fiddleford glanced over at the plant. It was currently in a microwave that Fiddleford had repurposed ages ago for fine-detail magical analysis.

“It’s still goin’.”

“Ugh.” Ford sat down on the ground with a scowl. “How long has it been in there? It feels like forever.” Fiddleford checked his watch.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Really? That’s it?” Ford sighed. “My internal clock must be off.”

“Yer internal clock has always been off,” Fiddleford said idly, picking up a piece of paper that summarized what they had learned about the plant so far. He scanned it, despite knowing that he had gone over it a hundred times and would learn nothing new from reading it again.

_Genus: _Salvia_. Species: Unknown. Emits a strong aura of magic that is closely affiliated with this dimension. Whether it is innately magical or magical due to exposure from a separate source is unknown._

“Yer also a kid,” Fiddleford continued, setting the paper down. “Kids have a dif’rent perception of time.”

“Hmph. I- what’s that sound?”

“What sound?” Fiddleford asked, looking at Ford. His eyes widened. Ford was beginning to emit a glow like he had the previous day, before he aged. “Uh…”

“It’s- it sounds like a school bell,” Ford said. He seemed not to have noticed he was glowing. Instead, he was staring off into the distance thoughtfully. “Like one that rang when Stanley and I were in elementary school.” Fiddleford grabbed a spare piece of paper and a pen. “Why are you writing that down?”

“Yer glowin’ again,” Fiddleford said, hurriedly scrawling what Ford had told him. Ford looked down at himself. He yelped.

“How did I not notice?”

“You were too caught up in the memory, I s’ppose,” Fiddleford said. He paused, gears beginning to turn in his head.

_Stan said that Stanford was talkin’ ‘bout cinnamon donuts from their childhood, when Stanford first ate that plant. The bakery stopped carryin’ those donuts when they were about four_. Fiddleford chewed on the end of the pen. _Did the plant bring him to the age he was when he most remembered eatin’ those donuts? If so, does that mean that Stanford will be ‘bout the age of an elementary school student soon?_ Fiddleford whipped his head around to look at Ford. Ford didn’t seem perturbed by the glowing. Rather, he had one finger stuck inside his ear.

“I’m still hearing that ringing,” Ford said, frustrated. The glow grew brighter and brighter, until it was so strong that Fiddleford had to close his eyes. When he opened his eyes again and blinked away the afterimages, Ford was older. More precisely, he was eight again.

_I was right. But what does it mean? _ Fiddleford pursed his lips. He shook his head. _Never mind. Tackle what matters most right now._

“How are ya feelin’?” Fiddleford asked. Ford inspected himself carefully.

“Like an eight-year-old,” he said flatly. Fiddleford chuckled. Ford sighed. “Scan me again.”

“What’s the magic word?” Fiddleford said on instinct. Ford pouted.

“Please,” he mumbled. Fiddleford fought back a smile. He picked up the device that measured magical auras and scanned Ford. His eyebrows went up at the results.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Yer still givin’ off magic, so you’ll prob’ly keep growin’. Most likely in these growth spurts.” Fiddleford cracked a small grin at the pun. “But the amount of magic in yer aura is less than it was. I assume you’ll stop growin’ eventually.”

“Ideally, when I return to my appropriate age,” Ford said.

“Yes. That would be ideal,” Fiddleford agreed. There was a ding from the analyzing microwave. Ford jumped to his feet, filled to the brim with energy again.

“Results!” Ford raced over to the microwave. “F! We have more results to go over, more data to decipher!” Fiddleford rubbed his face tiredly.

“Yes, but you should prob’ly change yer clothes first.”

“No need! I can look over the printouts in tight clothes. I could probably look over them in no clothes. Clothing is immaterial in the grand scheme of things, Fiddleford.” Ford trotted over, carrying the papers of data spat out by the microwave. “We need to begin work immediately, before Stanley insists on making us stop for lunch.” Ford huffed impatiently. “Food isn’t nearly as important as science.” With a sigh, Fiddleford took the piece of paper Ford was handing him.

_From what Stan’s told me, Stanford’s always been like this. How did their mother survive?_

By Thursday, Ford was sixteen and proud of it. He strutted into the kitchen and clapped his hands.

“I have some excellent news!” he announced in a booming voice. Stan turned a page in his newspaper without looking up.

“We get it, you’re glad your voice isn’t cracking every other word,” Stan said lazily. “You don’t have to shout all the time.” Ford flushed. After the last growth spurt, his voice had dropped to his regular baritone, something he’d been over the moon about. Fiddleford, who was wiping down the counters after breakfast, rolled his eyes.

“Ignore him, Stanford. What’s yer good news?” Fiddleford asked. Ford beamed.

“I’ve discovered why the portal malfunctioned,” he said. That got Stan’s attention. He set down his newspaper and looked at Ford.

“And?” Stan asked expectantly.

“It was sabotaged.”

“Sab-” Stan looked at Fiddleford, who seemed just as confused as him. “How the hell did someone sabotage it? Whatshisname, the demon, he wanted you to build it, and he seems like the only guy who could have access to your creepy basement. Except for you two nerds.” Stan frowned thoughtfully. “_Is_ whatshisname a guy?”

“I don’t know the gender politics of demons from other dimensions,” Ford said dryly.

“Demons from other dimensions,” Fiddleford muttered darkly. The day before, Ford had finally come clean about Bill’s involvement with the portal, and Fiddleford was still bitter about the whole affair.

_“Lord above, Stanford Pines, you got yourself into a deal with a demon? How could ya think it was a good idea? I know yer not as religious as I am, but that don’t mean you never heard someone say before that demons were bad!”_ Stan stifled a chuckle at the memory. Since Fiddleford was still using kid gloves with Ford, the whole scene had felt more like Ford was being scolded for staying up late, not summoning an interdimensional demon.

“But you are correct in that the portal had very limited access,” Ford continued.

“Then who sabotaged it?” Fiddleford asked. Ford raised an eyebrow.

“You did.”

“I-” Fiddleford put his hands on his hips. “I think I’d remember sabotagin’ somethin’ that I sunk far too much of my life into!”

“Would you?” Stan asked quietly. Fiddleford’s eyes widened.

“The sabotage was clearly your handiwork, Fiddleford,” Ford said. “I recognize it. No one else has your talent for rewiring.” Fiddleford sunk into a chair at the table, his expression blank. “My thought is that, after sabotaging the portal, you either erased your memory of the event or that memory was a casualty of a separate memory wiping session.”

“Those seem like the only two options,” Fiddleford said, his voice creaking. Stan watched Fiddleford in concern.

“You all right there?” Stan asked. Fiddleford nodded.

“Yeah, I just- gimme a mo’. I ain’t mad at myself, I’m just- it’s a bit disconcerting to have forgotten somethin’ as major as that.”

“I’m grateful you did it,” Ford said solemnly, sitting at the table as well. “If you hadn’t, who knows where I would have been?” A chill ran down Stan’s spine.

“You sure as hell wouldn’t be here,” Stan whispered. Ford nodded. Fiddleford took a shaking breath.

“Yes. I’m aware.” Fiddleford rubbed his face. “And I’m glad I did it, too. A tad bit peeved I don’t recall it, but glad.” He looked up. “And relieved to finally have an answer to that particular question.”

“Same here,” Stan said, picking up his newspaper again. Ford clasped his hands. Stan recognized the gesture. He set his newspaper back down. “What is it, Ford?”

“We need to prepare for when I return to my proper age.”

“Okay. Whattaya mean by that?”

“The house needs to be protected from Bill’s influence,” Ford said. Stan nodded.

“How do we do that?”

“The first step would be to create a barrier that will prevent him from entering. I’m already brainstorming ideas to settle things with Bill once and for all, but the barrier will ensure that I do not get possessed by him.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Fiddleford said. Ford sighed.

“Yes. But unfortunately, we’ll need unicorn hair.”

“Unicorns are real?” Stan asked. Fiddleford and Ford looked at him. “Yeah, yeah, weird magic shit is here all the time, I shouldn’t be surprised, whatever,” Stan mumbled. “Is it hard to get the hair or somethin’? You’re acting like it is.”

“Yes, it is very difficult,” Ford said with a small groan. “Difficult, nigh impossible. I have yet to peacefully obtain some.”

“Then it’s a good thing those unicorns like me,” Fiddleford said, upbeat. He winked at Stan and got up from the table. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Of course unicorns would like you,” Stan muttered. Fiddleford whapped him over the head playfully. Stan grinned at him as he left the room. He turned his attention back to Ford. “What else do we need?” Ford steepled his fingers thoughtfully.

“What was that about?” Ford asked.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. What do else we need to protect the house from Bill?”

“Materials I’ve already collected,” Ford said, waving a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over it. Now, is something going on between you and F?”

“Me and Fidds?” Stan asked. Ford nodded. “What- what would make you think that?”

“Besides the fact that you’ve started calling him Fidds, instead of Fiddlesticks, Fiddlenerd, and Fiddledork?”

“I still call him that sometimes,” Stan mumbled.

“Yes, but in an endearing way. A playful way. Not in frustration.”

“Whatever.”

“The other piece of evidence was the way that you looked at him just now. Very reminiscent of how you used to look at Carla.” Stan could feel a warm flush beginning to spread across his face. “And as for the look Fiddleford gave you, well…” Ford tapped his chin. “I’ve only ever seen him make it once. At his wedding, when he lifted his wife’s veil.” Some small hope that Stan hadn’t realized was rising plummeted.

_Right. He’s got a kid. Of course he’s married_. Ford shook his head.

“Sorry. His ex-wife.”

“Ex?” Stan asked, that hope beginning to grow again.

“Yes. They got divorced shortly before F moved here to work for me full-time. As I understand it, they have split custody of Tate.” Ford frowned. “Did he not tell you he was divorced?”

“He didn’t tell me he had been married, period.”

“Ah.” Ford leaned back. “Well, that could be because he was rather ashamed he couldn’t get it to work out. His family’s Catholic, you know. Very anti-divorce.”

_And probably anti-gay._

“Don’t get me wrong. They’re supportive of him. They weren’t happy he was getting a divorce, but they considered his happiness to be most important.” Ford was now watching Stan carefully. “It’s a very loving family. His younger brother came out as gay not that long ago.” Stan’s heart stopped. “There was an initial adjustment period, to be sure, but again, they wanted Fiddleford’s brother to be happy. And pretending to like women wasn’t making him happy. So they adjusted their mindsets.” Ford shrugged. “F claims it’s because of their ‘southern hospitality’ or some such thing.” He met Stan’s eyes. “Funny thing, though, F had no issues adjusting to his younger brother being gay. He took it far better than anyone else in his family did.”

“Why- why did you tell me that?” Stan croaked. Ford cocked his head.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ford grinned. “You should make a move.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Stan didn’t bother looking up from his magazine, dreading the conversation that was about to happen.

“I take it F has left?”

“Yep,” Stan grunted. “Something about how he wasn’t ready to see you as an adult yet.”

“Ah. So he went to his house?”

“Nope. California. Said this whole thing made him realize how much he misses his son. He’ll be back in a coupla days.”

“I see.” Stan continued to stare resolutely at the pages open in front of him, rereading the same line over and over, not a single word sinking in. “Stanley.” Stan swallowed and looked up. Ford stood in the entryway of the living room, back to his proper age.

_But now he’s not practically a ghost_. Ford crossed over to the armchair Stan was sitting in and balanced himself precariously on the dinosaur skull next to the chair, crossing his legs to do so.

“I should start getting my things,” Stan said. He scowled at the break in his voice. “That’s what I said I’d do. I said I’d leave once you were back to normal.” He set aside his magazine, about to get up.

“You- you aren’t even somewhat curious about why the plant returned me to normal?” Ford asked.

“…Sure.” Stan settled back into the chair. “Go for it, Sixer. What was the deal with that?”

“Well…” Ford cleared his throat. “I’m still not certain as to where the plant originated from. Regardless of its origin, however, the immense radiation it gave off was unique to this dimension. I belong to this dimension-”

“Debatable,” Stan mumbled. Ford ignored him.

“-however, my cellular components were aligned with an alternate dimension. As a result, I was drawn towards a source of immense, familiar energy,” Ford continued. Stan chewed on his lip.

“Like a beacon.”

“Exactly.” Ford sighed and uncrossed his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor. “Instinctually, I was driven to consume the plant, as an attempt to realign myself with this dimension.” Ford gestured to himself. “And obviously, it worked.”

“Why’d it take so long for you to get all the way back to normal, then?”

“I had to build up the energy to do so, which meant it could only happen in spurts. After all, I require energy for basic function.” Ford frowned. “I’m still uncertain as to why I began to experience sensations I associated with specific ages before each growth spurt, as well as why I regressed before I could…progress.”

“Fidds didn’t talk to you about his theory?” Stan asked, surprised. Ford looked at him. Stan looked away, avoiding eye contact.

“No, he didn’t. What was his theory?”

“We were talking about stuff he could do while he visited Tate, and shooting came up, since he apparently used to go hunting with his dad when he was a kid. And he was going on and on, explaining the mechanism behind why guns have a kickback. I got lost after about five words.” Stan grinned slightly at the memory.

_I’m used to guys way smarter than me talking at me about things that go over my head. I kinda missed it._

“And then he stopped mid-sentence and just stared at me with his mouth wide open.” Stan shook his head. “And he said, ‘Stanford got younger ‘cause the plant had a recoil!’ I guess he got it into his mind that, in order to send you forward, it had to send you backwards, first.” Stan shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him to explain it in more science-y words when he gets back. That’s about all that I can explain.”

“Hmm.” Ford leaned back thoughtfully. “I most certainly will have to speak to him.” Ford cleared his throat. “Did- did you have any questions for me?”

“Not really. Just seems pretty damn lucky that this all just dropped into our laps,” Stan said dryly. Ford let out a soft sigh.

“My knee-jerk reaction is to be doubtful of this stroke of good fortune as well.”

“Yeah, your buddy Fiddlesticks isn’t as cynical as we are. He told me to be happy that things worked out so quickly and easily. I was like, ‘Quickly? Ford was a kid for over a month!’ And he said, ‘Could’ve been worse.’” Stan spoke Fiddleford’s words in a slow drawl, attempting to approximate his southern accent. Ford let out a small chuckle.

“Have you asked him out yet?” Ford asked quietly. Stan whipped his head around to glare at Ford, who seemed startled by the aggressive movement. “What?”

“Come on, Sixer, that’s just-” Stan huffed. “First off, stop trying to get involved in my love life. Second, don’t try to fucking set me up when you’re still pissed at me for something I did over ten years ago!” A moment passed.

“I’m…not sure that I am pissed anymore,” Ford said finally. Stan snorted.

“Really. That’d be the discovery of the century. Fuck the thing in the basement, you learned how to give up on a grudge.” Ford scowled. “See? You’re still pissed at me.”

“Maybe- maybe I am,” Ford said, straightening his posture and almost falling off the dinosaur skull. He held his arms out to steady himself. “But I’m not pissed enough to ruin your chance with Fiddleford. He’s- he’s a good man, he deserves someone who would treat him right. And under that playboy façade of yours, you’re a hopeless romantic. You always have been. You never got over your high school sweetheart.”

“Shut up,” Stan muttered. He rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t make a move, okay? He’s- he probably wouldn’t be into a guy, and-”

“That’s not true.”

“How the hell would you know?” Stan demanded. He groaned. “Holy Moses, don’t tell me you guys dated. I said that as a joke, I didn’t-”

“No, no!” Ford said quickly, holding up his hands. “Fiddleford and I never had romantic intentions with each other. My one true love is science, Stanley.”

“Yeah. That old chestnut.”

“Before we fixed some issues in our roommate agreement at Backupsmore, he had a tendency to bring sexual partners back to our dorm room. He didn’t seem to care about the gender of the person whatsoever.”

“…Fine, he’s into guys,” Stan said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll be leaving soon.”

“You…you will?”

“Well, yeah. I told you I’d leave when you were back to normal, and you’re back to as normal as you get, so…” Stan gestured vaguely. Ford looked down at the ground. “You were all for kicking me out before all this happened and now you want me to stick around?”

“I-” Ford grimaced. “I’m not very good at articulating my emotions.”

“I’m in the same fucking boat, Poindexter.”

“I-” Ford took a deep breath. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“We went over that already. I know this.”

“Yes, well…just because I’m upset with you doesn’t mean I want you gone. Or that I want to have it out with you right now.” Ford spoke in a rush, each word tumbling out faster than the other. Stan merely watched him. “It’s- I’d forgotten what it was like to have you around.” Stan chortled.

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there. The last month? That was _nothing_ like how it was when we were kids.”

“Yes, yes. Still.” Ford looked away. “I’ve…missed you, Stanley.” A silence fell. After what felt like an eternity, Stan spoke.

“I missed you too, Stanford.” Stan could feel his throat getting thick with emotion. He coughed to clear it. “It was…it was pretty great to not be mad at you for a while.”

“Yes,” Ford said softly. Stan then put a word to how it had felt for the last ten or so years during which he’d been homeless, furious at Ford, but also desperate, craving some scrap of an interaction with him.

_It hurt. It hurt to be so angry at him, but also know he used to be the one person I could count on._

“I don’t know if I know how to be a good brother,” Ford said.

“Me neither. Obviously, I know how to be a damn good _dad_, but-” Ford laughed and playfully punched Stan’s shoulder. Stan rubbed the spot, chuckling. “Do you think we can get through this? Through all the bullshit we dealt with the last ten years?”

“It would take work. But I think it’s feasible,” Ford said carefully. He eyed Stan. “Of course, you’d need to stick around for that…”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I could really use someone to act as muscle for my research.” Ford feigned a casual tone. “There are a lot of dangerous things in the woods around here.” He raised an eyebrow at Stan. Stan’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Are you- are you-” he croaked.

“It might be a bit awkward at first, but if you’re willing to work for me, I’d love to have you join my research team.”

“As long as you don’t make me do any team-building exercises, I’m in,” Stan said. Ford beamed.

“Excellent.” Ford leaned closer. “Now, when are you going to ask Fiddleford out?”

“Wh- son of a bitch, Sixer, why do you keep pushing this?”

“Because the only reason you asked out Carla McCorkle was because I dared you to. You need a push when it comes to forming a meaningful relationship.” Ford nudged Stan. “Here’s your push. Go for it.”

“I think you’re still stuck in kid mode. I’ve heard kids of single parents trying to get them to go on dates.”

“Please. I may have been a child, but I never once thought you were my father,” Ford scoffed. Stan looked away guiltily. “…Stan?”

“…I should probably tell you about those coupla days you can’t remember.”

“Oh-” Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sweet Moses. Maybe we won’t be able to work past this.”

“Nah,” Stan said confidently. “Like you said. It’ll take some work and a whole lotta time, but we’ve got this.” Ford managed a small smile. “What are you gonna do for dinner?”

“What am I going to do for dinner?”

“I cooked for you for a month. You owe me a lotta meals.”

“…I don’t know how to cook.”

“Yeah.” Stan got up and stretched. “Let’s order some greasy, shitty pizza, then. It’s been a while since I’ve clogged my arteries.” Ford shook his head, hiding a smile.

Stan didn’t bother to turn around when he heard the back door open. He took another drag of his cigarette, relishing the ability to indulge in the vice in the open.

_Couldn’t smoke around Ford when he was a kid_. Someone coughed. Stan looked over. It was Fiddleford.

“Oh, hey Fidds,” Stan said. Fiddleford walked over and sat next to him, his gangly legs dangling over the edge of the porch. Stan offered him his cigarette. Fiddleford looked at it longingly before shaking his head.

“I shouldn’t. I don’t want Tate to smell it on me.”

“Tate’s in California. Go ahead, have a puff.”

“Tate’s actually not in California right now,” Fiddleford said slowly. Stan raised an eyebrow. “Emma-May and I worked out an agreement.” Fiddleford sighed heavily. “Took some convincin’. My absence didn’t exactly make her heart grow fonder. But so long as Tate calls every night, she’s willin’ to let him stay with me fer a week.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s a trial run of sorts. She ain’t willin’ to let Tate be in my care any longer than that yet. Once I’ve earned her trust, we’ll revisit the custody arrangement.”

“So if Tate’s in Gravity Falls, who’s watching him?” Stan asked. Fiddleford quirked a half-smile.

“Stanford.”

“Really?”

“He was a boy himself recent enough. Figured it might have helped him figure out how children work.” There was a clatter and a shout from inside. “Though I’m second-guessin’ that right now.”

“Eh, Ford’ll be fine,” Stan said, waving a hand. “I was telling him yesterday about all the tips I used on him while he was a kid. He shoulda remembered some of ‘em.” Fiddleford chuckled.

“He should, but sometimes, things go in one ear and out the other with him.”

“Heh. Yeah.” Stan finished off his cigarette. He ground the butt underneath his heel as he exhaled the last puff of smoke.

“I’m surprised yer still here,” Fiddleford said abruptly. Stan looked at him. “Didn’t you say you’d leave once Stanford was back to normal?”

“Yeah. I did. But that plan changed.” Stan winked at Fiddleford. “I’m gonna stick around to help Ford with his research. He said he needed some muscle.”

“…Oh.” The sound was small, disappointed. Fiddleford cleared his throat hurriedly. “I was just…I mean…” Fiddleford looked at the forest, avoiding eye contact with Stan. “There’s…there’s no other reason yer plannin’ on stayin’ in town?” Stan felt like he couldn’t breathe. A silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of wind through the trees and Ford trying and failing to watch Tate inside.

“I, uh, I don’t have a lot of options-” Stan started. Fiddleford’s shoulders tightened; he hunched in on himself.

“That’s why? ‘Cause yer only other choice is to be homeless?” Fiddleford asked quietly. During the time span in which Stan and Fiddleford had worked together, Fiddleford had worked his weird, southern charm to convince Stan to talk about his life. Specifically, what his life had been like since he’d gotten kicked out of the house.

“I mean…” Stan mumbled. Fiddleford was silent. Stan could practically hear the gears turning in Fiddleford’s mind as he grappled with the decision to be more upfront about what he was asking. “Fidds.” Fiddleford looked at him, wary. Stan managed a cocky grin. “I’m not as much of a dumbass as Ford. I get what you’re asking about.” Doubt remained in Fiddleford’s eyes. Stan scooched closer.

“Would I have left if Ford didn’t tell me I could basically crash on his couch?” Stan said. “Yeah. Probably. There’s a lotta bad blood between me and Ford. I don’t think I’d be able to handle the stress of being in the same state as him, let alone the same town, if he wasn’t willing to try to bury the hatchet. Or bury at least one of the hatchets.” Stan saw Fiddleford roll his eyes the tiniest amount. The meaning was clear.

_“Get to the point and address what I was implying.”_

“But I wouldn’t have been happy,” Stan said softly. “And not just ‘cause things would still be bad with me and Ford. I- you-” Stan took a breath and tried to line up the words he wanted to say. “You’re the first person I’ve been able to open up to about my shitty, fucked-up life. Ford, I never needed to tell him, he was there for most of it. The people I met while I was homeless? Didn’t matter to me. I knew I’d see ‘em a day and be gone the next. But you…” Stan shook his head. “Despite my best attempts to push you away, you kept clawing your way back in, you little southern shit.” Fiddleford was smiling now. Stan could feel his heart pounding in his chest, so loudly that he was sure Ford and Tate would be able to hear it above the ruckus of whatever was going on inside.

_“__You need a push when it comes to forming a meaningful relationship.”_ Stan leaned in, his eyes filled with the light of the setting sun, reflecting off Fiddleford’s reading glasses. _“Here’s your push. Go for it.”_ His lips met Fiddleford’s.

He was expecting Fiddleford to shout some southern swear and shove him away. But nothing of the sort happened. When they broke apart, Fiddleford looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the redness of his face.

_Wouldn’t have helped anyways,_ Stan thought, noting that Fiddleford’s flush snuck down his neck, disappearing behind his shirt collar. There was a dead silence. The wind had stilled, even the commotion in the house had stopped. _C’mon, Fiddlesticks, say something!_

“I, uh,” Fiddleford stammered finally, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt, a nervous habit Stan had become familiar with. He slid his glasses back onto his prominent nose. “That was…”

“Hey, the moment was right,” Stan said with a shrug. His attempt to feign a lack of concern was marred by the crack in his voice. Fiddleford pursed his lips, looking down at his feet intently. “Look, if you didn’t like it-”

“No.” It was a whisper. “I- I did.” Fiddleford took a shuddering breath. “My folks, they- they’ve backed down from their original opinions, but it’s still- it’s-”

“It’s hard to fight the programming,” Stan said softly, thinking back to his own childhood. Filbrick’s disdainful sneer as he snarled slurs at anyone who didn’t fit in. Fiddleford nodded. “If you don’t want-”

“I do.” Fiddleford looked up at Stan, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I do. More- more than I would’ve thought possible, given we’ve known each other less ‘n a month.”

“What can I say? I’m a charmer.”

“No, you aren’t,” Fiddleford said, a tease in his tone.

“What?”

“I doubt the av’rage Joe would consider yer baggage, build, and general behavior to be as charmin’ as you think it is.” Fiddleford grinned. “But I ain’t the av’rage Joe, now, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Stan said. “For one thing, it’s definitely not normal for someone to insult a person that they said they want to be, ah, _romantic_ with.” Stan filled the word “romantic” with as much subtext as he possibly could. The effort was rewarded promptly – Fiddleford turned an even deeper shade of red. “I don’t mind abnormal, though. Especially when abnormal kisses like _that_.” Fiddleford covered his face with his hands. “Really, Fiddlesticks? You’re embarrassed? _You_ were the one using tongue!”

“Oh, Lord,” Fiddleford wheezed. Stan decided to back off for the moment. Silence fell again, but more companionable. Less strained. Fiddleford shook his head. “I- you-”

“Take your time,” Stan said, amused.

“I was- before you started sayin’ that, I was ‘bout to say that you weren’t the only one who had a rare chance to open up,” Fiddleford finally said, his face blotchy.

“I thought you were close with your family,” Stan said.

“Well, sure. But I don’t want to drag ‘em into the nonsense I got myself into here in Gravity Falls.” Fiddleford smiled slightly at Stan. “You, though, got dragged into it by someone else entirely.”

“Yup.” Stan let out a long sigh. “I did. Same person that dragged you into it.”

“Yessir.” Fiddleford chewed on his lip. “I- Stanley, I think I’d like to- to try this.”

“This?”

“U-us,” Fiddleford stammered. Stan rolled his eyes.

“No doy. Figured that out when you used _tongue_ on a _first kiss_.”

“Stanley, please!” Fiddleford shrieked. Stan merely grinned at him.

“I wanna take a stab at it, too,” Stan said reassuringly. “I-” Stan scowled. “Ford says that deep down, I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“Are you?”

“Fuck if I know.” Stan sighed. “But I wanna try something that I think could last. With someone I’m close to.” He looked at Fiddleford. “Someone who, despite being made of twigs, manages to be attractive.” Fiddleford blushed again. “So when do you wanna go out?”

“I, um…”

“If you don’t wanna go out in public, we can always come here. Or the woods,” Stan added as an afterthought. “Never done it in the woods before.”

“I need more than one date ‘fore I’ll do ‘it’,” Fiddleford mumbled. His disgruntled tone didn’t mask his smile, however.

“Okay, no woods. Where, then?”

“There’s a campground just outside of town. Isolated, secluded. Perfect spot fer a picnic.”

“I think I can handle a picnic,” Stan said with a slow nod. Fiddleford’s smile widened. There was a loud crash from inside, causing them both to jump, startled. Fiddleford looked back at the house.

“I should prob’ly go make sure Stanford hasn’t put Tate in danger. Or vice versa.” He stood up. Stan got up as well.

“Yeah, I think it’s high time I met your kid,” Stan said confidently. Fiddleford blinked at him in surprise. “Hey, you were the one who brought him over.”

“Yes, but…” Fiddleford shook his head in a fruitless effort to hide his growing smile. “Still. Wantin’ to meet someone’s child ‘fore you’ve even gone on a first date? That’s mighty bold.” Stan leaned over to kiss Fiddleford on the cheek. He let out a small squeak and turned red again.

“Thought you woulda figured it out by now, Fiddlesticks. I _am_ bold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to post this! During December, I got caught up in last-minute preparations and edits for my master's thesis, which I (successfully) defended last month. Since then, I've been busy taking a much-needed break. But hopefully this last chapter was worth the wait, because it's easily the longest chapter I've ever posted on AO3. I'm pretty proud of how it turned out.
> 
> Thank you everyone who read this fic and left comments, I read every single comment even if I didn't get a chance to reply to them all before I posted this final chapter. I appreciate the support I've gotten, and hopefully, you'll like how I finished this saga!
> 
> As always, if you have questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


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